


My life with Holmes - english

by Lenap



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Bromance, Bromance to Romance, Case Fic, Control, Control Issues, Domestic, Family Issues, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Slash, Translation from Russian, Trust Issues, very slow building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:43:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenap/pseuds/Lenap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson never considered himself someone special or important. An ordinary man with ordinary desires. But his life was never this simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my translation of my fic - My life with Holmes. It was ineteresting experiment for me. For all the mistakes blame me as I'm not native speaker. Dear Librarianmum for fanfiction.net helped me with betting this text, But then I rewrote someparts and there could be some mistakes. I hope not a lot but still))
> 
> Here are my vision of how the 1 season should have been)))
> 
> _____________________________
> 
> Ok.... it would be really nice to have some feedback - was it good? or bad?  
> because it's really confusing - over 1000 hits and no comments...

John Watson, relying heavily on his cane, was walking down the dark corridor to the required door, simply marked with the number 25. Regarding the shabby white plastic, he wondered yet again why this number but every time forgot to ask Bill. Maybe it was some kind of joke or maybe nothing in particular? He really didn't know why he wondered in the first place.

Glancing around, John knocked several times on the door and listened for any sounds. As he expected, first he heard muffled voices, then quiet steps, stopping right in front of him behind the shabby wood.

“Who?”

“It's Watson.”

Finally the door opened and he was able to see a semi-dark corridor and, beyond, a familiar room full of vague silhouettes. With some difficulty, John squeezed past the impressive guy who vigilantly searched him for any weapon right in the narrow corridor and only after that allowed him to go further. It was the first time in his memory that he had been met in such a way in any of the places he worked in. 

The level of suspicion and conspiracy troubled him, but he had no way of escaping now that he had crossed the threshold of this place. He walked as confidently towards the sound of voices as his leg and cane permitted.

When he appeared in the main room, the conversation died down; the eyes of all present began to slide suspiciously across his face, hands, up and down his cane and small briefcase, which he always took with him.

One face was familiar to him. Don. Not older than twenty three, just a boy to John. He rarely worked with this guy; they really didn't get along well. But Bill was often short of competent assistants, so sometimes they did interact. If he could, he would work with Charlie alone and nobody else. John oh so clearly remember his last shift with this dick for a guy. At that time he could hardly restrain himself from killing him.

A quick clinical inspection of the room told him about many things but most importantly, about the potential for trouble that he could so easily get himself into. No wonder here.

John forced himself to relax and asked in calm voice, “So who needs help?”

As expected, he was conducted into an adjoining room to a figure lying motionless on the bed. Usually they used that room for rest between patients. John didn't like this particular place, but it was better than some in which he had to work sometimes, so no complaints here. He sensibly set the suitcase on the floor not far from where he perched himself heavily, helping himself with his cane. Ok, worries aside, he had a patient to look at.

Male. About thirty. In a very expensive suit, far too expensive for this part of town in general and this place in particular. Dark wavy hair, too pale skin. John found a pulse, checked his pupils and winced. Overdose. Another junkie.

“What do you think, Doc?” The voice sounded near him. He had already heard silent footsteps following him here; had heard someone holding their breath. That was why he was prepared and just allowed himself to appear startled.

“What has he mixed?”

It was strange - classic signs of overdose. And, if not for his military training and experiences of working with certain kinds of drugs, he would have no doubts at all and would have followed standard procedure.

“He tried new stuff, fucking junkie. Will he live?”

“If he is still alive, he will survive.” John shrugged his shoulders, disdainfully. He put the cane aside and opened his work briefcase. Well, now he was able to verify his guesses. An elementary check of uncontrolled reflexes, and he would know exactly what was happening here.

“Ches, disappear, the doc and I have something we need to discuss.” His so-called assistant for the evening silently materialized in the room. He rather crudely pushed his buddy out and locked the door behind him.

“Doc, what a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect tonight to be your shift.”

John stiffened. All possible routes of retreat were blocked. He would have no time to get to the bathroom. And even if he did, who would he call? Not the police, that’s for sure. Not Bill either; he didn't want to bring him any sort of trouble… yet. Jumping through the window didn't make any sense. Second floor, he just would have another broken leg if not both. And there were armed guys next door, who at the slightest hint of danger would start firing on all living things. Yes, no options for clean escape.

“What do you want?”

The evening was spoiled long ago. Not only had Bill pulled him right out of the bar, even though he knew all too well that John didn't like to work with drug addicts, and didn't say a word about that. But now this little asshole had appeared to make his life even worse.

The guy came too close, crowding his personal space, and was now breathing hotly on John's neck. He could only wonder why blokes like Don thought that if they would fuck not only women but men, it would enhance their status in the eyes of others. Especially if they fuck men much older than them.

“Make it look like he died by accident, and I'll help you to get out of here alive.”

And here he was thinking he would get away quietly. Nope, no such luck today.

“And how will you organize that for me?” John smiled, while slowly doing his job. Today he was not going to take part in someone's death. “Your friends out there, of course, have no idea what you are asking me to do… Don?”

Under his ministrations, the man on the bad jerked, just barely noticeable. Now John was sure that he was no ordinary junkie.

“You have your methods, I have mine.”

John briefly glanced at his watch and frowned. Bill wouldn't start to worry for at least for another half hour.

The guy was not just only looming over him, he had managed to lie on top of him, so John was sandwiched between him and the unconscious junkie. The evening had every tendency to escalate out of the category of utter failure to completely disastrous.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't help him, and I will consider your offer.”

“Mr. Moran would appreciate it very much.”

“Sebastian Moran?” John was really surprised. He had hoped never to hear that name again. No such luck. Again.

His attention was attracted by some scuffling. After the first quiet flap shot, he understood everything. It was too familiar not to be recognized. John, with all the confidence he could muster in that moment, put his hand on the boy's neck and pulled him for a kiss, while trying to find with his other hand the gun. The gun, which wasn't in the usual place, although definitely had to be there.

“Looking for something, doc?” John heard the words near his ear and froze. He didn't even notice how the man under him changed his position, while he was distracting the guy, drew the gun and held it to Don's temple. The safety catch quietly clicked with a familiar sound.

The boy jerked in alarm and quickly drew away from John, although in his place John wouldn't haven’t risked moving. There were some screaming and shouting, more shots. In a moment, the door flew open with a loud bang, and after the expected quiet shot, Don fell heavily to the floor, flooding the cheap carpet with blood from a bullet wound.

John slowly sat up and turned around. The tremor disappeared from his hands, and he was working very hard to keep from panicking. Grey eyes with dilated pupils common to all drug addicts were carefully examining him. Far too attentive and inquisitive for their owner to be high.

He heard the quiet stealthy steps, but as he was considering what to do under the circumstances, the man on the bed abruptly yanked John and bent over him, shielding him with his back from possible threats. He strongly suspected if the man hadn't done that then he, John Watson, could have met his sudden and cheerless end in this shitty hotel.

The stranger’s eyes continued to study him carefully, even after the sound of quiet steps was replaced by a woman's clicking heels. John involuntary squinted his eyes to the side and was surprised to see a very beautiful woman in a business suit with two mobile phones, one of which she put in the outstretched hand of his unwitting saviour.

“Yes.” On the other end, judging by the man’s silence, there was a protracted monologue.

Except, of course, for having the barrel of the gun pointed in his neck, one could say that he was lucky to get out of this scrape unharmed. Unharmed for now, judging by the speed and quality of the operation.

A tangible tapping of the barrel on his chin reminded him to look back to the grey eyes. His unwitting acquaintance demanded constant eye contact, and it became almost physically uncomfortable. John had a strong feeling that he was being thoroughly analyzed.

“What the fuck, Mycroft? I had everything under control before your interference. You're too rushed!.. Great!... I won’t be alone.”

At the end of the conversation, the expensive toy flew into the wall. John shivered a little from such a rapid surge of emotions.

“You know, this gun is still removed from the safety catch,” he whispered, not daring to look away from the stranger's face, with its high cheekbones and sensual lips. The man hanging over him was not exactly handsome, but his face surely was attractive, almost off-putting.

His heart was still beating furiously, driven by surge of adrenaline in the blood. Since his return to London after his injury and long recovery, he had a constant feeling that he’d just got into another war. A war with other rules, but still requiring permanent sacrifices.

After the familiar click, John involuntarily sighed with relief and was able to move without risking accidental death. And the first thing he noticed after the wash of relief was the knee resting near his groin.

“You will go with me.” The tone didn't allow for debate, but John was in no position to oppose. Not while he was distinctly hearing the work of a cleaning team in the other room.

“Sherlock, the car is ready.” The woman that impressed John with her cold beauty didn't even look up from the screen of her mobile phone while speaking.

Said Sherlock jumped easily off the bed and stretched out his hand. John cautiously took advantage of the offered help and gently lowered his foot on the floor. He picked up his fallen cane and shut his case with a slight click.

He could do well enough without the cane at all, but a lame short man in a baggy jacket with an inconspicuous case caused, as a rule, a sense of empathy, rather than a sense of danger. And this suited him just fine. Especially in this area of the city. And John really didn't need extra attention to his person.

As they walked to the entrance, John tried not to look around. Instead he chose to stare at the back of the expensive suit, marvelling how tall this stranger was. John always considered himself a statistically average Briton, and all high individuals usually gave him sense of wonder, rather than envy. Actually he preferred his height. More than once it had been an advantage rather than a disadvantage.

There was simple black car waiting for them a short distance from the dilapidated hotel from which they finally emerged. John looked around. If there were no dark figures, he would try to escape, use his cane on this Sherlock and run as fast as he could, then grab his stuff and disappear somewhere quiet for some time. But intuition told him not to do anything rash as he spotted at least two excellent observation points for snipers, and nothing suggested that they were not there.

Only after he was situated comfortably in the back seat of the black sedan did John remember that he had to call and warn Bill. A search of his pockets for his mobile revealed nothing, so John looked with suspicion at the man sitting beside him. He knew for certain that he’d taken his mobile phone with him. And John knew that he shouldn't have allowed the man to help him climb into the car.

“I need to make a call.”

“From this?”

John frowned, promising himself to try to be always on guard with this man. He silently held out his hand but didn't expect the lost item to be returned immediately. Grey eyes watched him with interest and challenge.

“And what will I get for that?”

John cursed darkly and turned to the window. Whatever happened, he really needed to make this call to be sure that Bill wouldn't go to check on him by himself or send any of the guys.

John was now sure that Sherlock was able to give a perfect portrayal of a drug addict, and that could only come from personal first-hand experience. This did not add points to John’s imaginary list of qualities. Besides, this meant that while the man had pretended to lie sedated, he had heard all the talk.

Of course, there wasn't a lot of information given. Only that Don wanted to get in his pants, and that John, as a doctor, had previously worked with him. But he had given himself away on his own. He wondered whether just a mention of the man that he never wanted to meet again in his life had led to where he was right now.

When John got tired of watching night time London float by, he turned to his companion to discover that he had quietly moved closer. And, it seemed, had amused himself all this time by watching John while typing a message to someone. From John's phone. How rude.

“Give me back my phone, and I won’t punch you,” tried John. Nimble fingers did not mean advantage in a close hand-to-hand fight, but John could not risk it. Never underestimate the enemy.

“Let me touch your face, and I'll give it back.”

Never in his life had he been asked for something so strange. John pursed his lips. On the other hand, nothing much was required from him. Just sit, wait and be patient.

“Correct me if I'm wrong - you want to touch my face? With your hand?”

After getting an affirmative nod, John decided. Not that he had much of a choice from the start.

“No more than two minutes,” he warned. “And maybe you’ll finally tell me your name?”

“Deal. Sherlock Holmes.”

“John. John Watson.” He did not add a polite "nice to meet you", as he found the circumstances of their acquaintance were more than inappropriate.

The fact that Sherlock Holmes did not operate within the concept of personal space, John had seen before, but still he had to force himself to sit still and not try to avoid the prying insistent fingers. He had a strong feeling that he was sitting dangerously close to an actually quite mad person, but he could do nothing about that.

Sensitive long fingers began their study with his jaw, then moved to the eyebrows, smoothed his forehead, ran on tightly pressed lips, again returned to the cheeks. All the movements seemed rather chaotic and ill-considered to him. As if, in the given three minutes, Holmes wanted to cover everything at once, but in the end, did not know where to start.

When the pads of the thumbs went to his eyelashes, John involuntarily closed his eyes. He was patiently counting the seconds to himself and pondering what to say to Bill.

He would gladly have told a friend where he was being taken, if only he knew it himself. His only remaining hope was to use a gun secretly hidden in the bottom of the case if things turned ugly.

“Time’s up.” John moved with relief as far as he could, away from the warm fingers that he still felt on his face. Holmes silently handed him his phone, and finally moved to his half of the seat.

Bill's voice sounded alarmed, but without panic:

“John? What happened?”

-Mən bütün sağ oldum. Mən kimi bir əlaqələr həyata gedin. Zəng haqqında heç bir şeyunutmaq. (1)

This time, John put the phone in the front pocket of his jeans after checking for messages, and only then glanced at his companion. Holmes put his hands in a prayerful gesture under his chin and looked thoughtful; that, in general, suited John just fine. He himself had something to think about other than other people's strange behaviour. For example, the fact that they had already left for the suburbs.

Lost in thought, he didn’t even pay attention as the car began to slow down, until gradually it stopped in front of a not particularly remarkable house. One of many on a quiet street. What they could want in a house amidst all this prosperity, John could only speculate. He somehow expected something like an abandoned warehouse, something dark, damp and uncomfortable.

John took his case, but the guard at the entrance politely asked him to leave it on a desk in the lobby. He remained with only a useless cane, although if required he could use it as a weapon as well.

He looked around nervously, noting the position of exits for a possible tactical and, more likely, hasty retreat. With each brightly lit corridor they traversed, each door that closed behind him, he became more nervous.

Finally, they entered the darkened room, which, apparently, was the ultimate goal of their journey. There was a man who John suspected was Mycroft; the man with whom Holmes had been talking on the phone.

Expensive suit, a wedding ring, manicured hands with beautiful long fingers. In the twilight it was difficult to make out facial features, but judging by the supercilious arch and shape of the nose, the man sitting in front of him was a relative of Sherlock. Although with such names, they could only be from the same family. Assuming, of course, those names were real.

“Good evening.” John believed in the necessity of generally accepted rules and norms of behaviour, and as a polite and well-mannered man greeted the stranger first. He now came under the lens of two pairs of studying eyes.

“My brother Mycroft.” Sherlock apparently considered that it was necessary to introduce his relative. “This is John. Your people have freed him and me from doing all the dirty work.”

John nervously licked his lips, a habit that had stayed with him since his time in the dry dust of Afghanistan. He tried to pretend as if nothing had happened; to look around. Strong doors, barred windows, the rich, but smartly made furnishings. He might even be offered a seat. Although that was the least of his worries. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?“ Sherlock stood beside his brother. Now, they both were hiding in semi-darkness, so John, in spite of his excellent vision, could only guess the expression on their faces. And if Holmes Jr. was really expressive when he wanted to be, the elder brother was a closed book to him.

“What, sorry?” John involuntarily turned just to make sure that no one had come in behind him while he pondered. There was no one. The question was really meant for him.

“Afghanistan... But how do you know?”

“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, your deportment suggest that you are a soldier. You have a sunburned face, but there is no sun tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not on vacation. You limp really badly while walking, but haven’t asked for chair all the time we’ve been standing here, as if you had forgotten about it. It’s at least partly a psychosomatic reaction. This suggests that that the circumstances of the injuries were traumatic. So, wounded in battle. Wounded in action plus a tan can only mean Afghanistan or Iraq.

“Anything else?” Now John was truly interested.

“You're acting too calm in a stressful situation for a conventional military surgeon. In whatever room you go, first of all you note the location of doors and windows, representing a possible route of escape. In addition, there in that hotel room, you immediately suspected that something was wrong and the first thing you did was check my reaction. Only a knowledgeable physician could recognize my bluff, and in a cheap hotel in a not very affluent area of town I was not supposed to meet one.”

“That was… extraordinary.” John was surprised. And if one omitted some minor details, what Sherlock said was right.

“You think so?”

“Yes, of course. Quite extraordinary. But it doesn’t explain my presence here.”

Sherlock looked at him accusingly. Now he was accustomed to the dim light, John saw that as clear as day. For a moment, but only for one moment, he was even ashamed. Then he relaxed his facial muscles and slightly turned his head to the side. Usually, it worked. John called it his "i-am-so-innocent-how-you-even-can-suspect-me-in-something-look".

“Oh, that look could deceive me if I had had less time to watch you.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft cut his brother, attracting their attention. “Doctor Watson, please, sit down. I’ve already ignored all the rules of propriety, so my brother could show off.”

John nodded gratefully. He did not even consider it shameful to select a chair from which he could see the door and the window. He had no reason to feel secure in the company of these people. Especially this Mycroft, John had strong suspicions that this man knew to mush about him so far.

“So?” This question was not addressed to him.

“I thought you could do better than that. Really, Mycroft? Drug ring?”

Watching the squabbling between the brothers, John couldn’t shake the feeling that he was witnessing a repeat conversation, the topic of which had not changed for several years if not longer. It remained unclear why he was present.

He shifted in his chair, hesitantly. He was tired of being ordered around. And now that the adrenaline was not driving the blood through his veins, he had to put some effort into staying focused and attentive. He felt he was getting too old for such a pastime.

After waiting for a short lull in the brothers’ conversation, he finally decided to intervene:

“Excuse me, I don't want to be rude and interrupt this family idyll, but can you tell what you need specifically from me, and get it over with?”

The brothers exchanged understanding glances and, almost simultaneously, turned to him.

“I want him.” Sherlock wouldn't take his strangely glimmering eyes off John, making him very uncomfortable. John frowned. It was so childish, like Holmes Jr. had asked his brother to buy him a puppy. “I was sure until recently that he was your man.”

“Doctor Watson, you have to forgive my brother's indiscretion. I'm afraid this is entirely my fault. I've always indulged his desires ... And here is the result.”

“That is certainly sad, but ...?”

Mycroft, with one smooth movement, drew his phone from his pocket, deliberately flipped through from some and with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction gave the gadget to Sherlock, who was wobbling with impatience. After which, he pronounced his verdict:

“Judging by your track record and qualifications, you are the perfect companion for my brother, being not only an excellent doctor, but an excellent soldier.”

“I remember where the exit is. It was nice to meet you. An escort is not necessary.” John stood up and even managed a few steps toward the door.

“Oh, don't be like that!” Sherlock blocked his way and now was looming over him. “You have no reason to refuse, apart from your far-fetched reaction. Counting that alcoholic sister of yours and a few bonds left from the Army, your number of contacts is negligible. Casual acquaintances in bars and at underground fights do not count. You're looking for adrenaline rushes, risking getting caught in clandestine operations, or being killed in a random night shootout. With me it will be different. It will be better.”

“What's the fuck! But how…?”

“Yes, John. I only had to see your mobile phone to find out that your sister is drinking. And I could read that you were in the army in your face and leg. And you would not have appeared in that hotel room if not looking for opportunities to bring some risk into your life.”

“Then you may also be able to see that I despise drug users, and will not voluntarily agree to work with one.”

“I…”

“Sherlock, the doctor was very clear with his position.” One could hear perfectly the threatening tone in the voice of the elder Holmes. People who know how to sound convincing without raising their voices always prompted involuntary respect from John.

“But…”

“Goodbye, Doctor Watson. It was nice to meet you.”

John practically flew into the hallway, and as far as his leg and cane allowed, he hastened to the door. If it were not for the camera tracking his every move, he would have gladly dropped the conspiracy and left the building even faster.

He waited anxiously at the entrance, concerned that the guards would not let him go further, but nothing happened. Even his case was returned to him.

“The car is waiting for you.”

John sighted with relief. He had imagined having to wander through the sleeping streets looking for the nearest station to find the morning train to go back to London. Fortunately for him, these Holmes brothers were clearly above petty revenge.

The road back seemed almost endless. He retrieved the gun from his case as imperceptibly as possible and hid it behind his belt. Just in case the last stop in their itinerary was not the street that he had asked to be taken to.

Only when the car was out of his sight did John allow himself to step into the shadow of the alley and catch his breath. He had to walk two more blocks to his small rented flat. And although he suspected that his unwanted acquaintances knew not only where he lived, but also where his sister lived and where Bill and his indeed few friends were, for his own reassurance he decided to play safe and walk some more.

He was met at the building by the habitual noise of swearing at two o'clock in the morning, bass music and not-so-quiet groans. John wearily leaned against the locked door feeling the familiar pressure of the gun at his back.

He was finally home. John pulled off his jacket, threw his shoes down and collapsed on the neatly made bed. Rolling over to the side, with an effort, he drew the mobile from his jeans pocket and slowly typed a short message to Bill.

The call back came almost immediately.

“John? Is everything ok?”

“Mate, I'm half asleep… Alive, all intact. Will call in the morning.”

“Ok.”

John looked at the screen until it extinguished and its glossy surface started reflecting the night lights of the city that he saw through the window. A few minutes later he decided to make an effort and pull off clothing that landed heavily on the floor. The gun went under the pillow, along with his mobile.

++**++

Sleep did not come immediately. And only the ability to fall asleep at any time, any place and at any position, which came to him after a long tour of duty in field hospitals, finally allowed John to give his body a long-awaited rest. And if he dreamed of shooting in dusty canyons of Afghanistan and the cries of wounded soldiers, he happily did not remember this, waking up with the sunrise.

John stretched. He was reminded of the pain in his shoulder with a slight tingling. But despite this, he allowed himself to enjoy a rare moment of peace and tranquillity. No din of music, no arguing neighbours, only the usual sounds of an awakening city.

He didn’t like this apartment and this part of town, but would never have swapped London for a more peaceful and affordable suburb. If only he could manage to find a suitable job. But not with his tremor, which disappeared only in stressful situations and the stamp of professional impropriety on his file. At worst, he could try to search for a tolerable flat mate... But John was not ready yet to share a roof with someone else.

Pursuing the usual morning routine, he kept mentally scrolling through the events of the evening and night. No police, no extra fuss. The strange hostage, who needed to be alive enough for the guys to take the risk of inviting a doctor. And on the other hand, needed to be dead without undue suspicion. No chance that all this was just a dismantling of local drug traffickers. Not at their level – everything was conducted too professionally. Poor Don was in the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong people. He didn't want for the guy to end like this but couldn’t really have done anything to prevent it.

John strongly suspected that he would not be so easily left alone. Hiding was his one option, but not with the sad state of his finances. The cash in his wallet would have been much more if it were not for his gambling problem. Perhaps he was not quite fair to this Holmes. But he was only willing to tolerate some addictions, and drugs weren't in that list.

After having an apple and tea for breakfast, John quickly dressed, not forgetting to take the gun, grabbed his cane and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. While walking down the street and dialling Bill, he tried to decide what information he could and could not tell.

“Are you free now?” John asked instead of a greeting. And after hearing an affirmative answer, he calmed down and slowed down his steps. “I’ll be there soon.”

He had a creepy feeling of being watched, but couldn’t tell for sure. After walking several blocks John was even hungrier than when he woke up, and decided that it would be good to refresh himself before the upcoming conversation. There was only a slight chance that there would be any sort of food at Bill's bachelor pad.

After ruefully counting his cash, he decided to eat at a pretty decent cafe he knew, and ordered an omelette with tea. Perhaps now he should re-try his luck - try to make up for past losses on fights. Either that or ask Bill for some more shifts. Although, in the light of recent events, the second option was not very promising.

He had to ring the doorbell for a long time before it was opened by a girl with matted black hair and bad makeup.

“Who is it?” John heard a familiar voice coming from the bathroom.

“Your friend! Cute!” she shouted in response and slapped John on the lower back.

Bill immediately popped out in a towel, wet and freshly shaven, kissed the girl somewhere in the area of the ear and pushed her toward the kitchen:

“Make something for breakfast.”

Then he drew John into the same bathroom from which he had just appeared. He locked the door behind them and turned on the water.

“Spill.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I never got to the place. Some guys stopped me and politely sent me away, and that's all,”reported John, leaning against the door.

Bill, with one smooth move, pressed him with his body and was breathing hotly into the neck:

“And now, what really had happened in there? I was confronted by such serious people that I had to call back all my staff and ask them to keep quiet for several weeks.”

“You want the truth? - then have it,” John whispered, angrily. “Heavily armed and highly trained professionals broke in there, got everyone and quietly disappeared, if nothing happened at all. And my ass was saved by the junkie to whom I was called. How do you like that?”

“Shitty assignment, Johnny.”

John looked into the brown eyes of the man who had covered his back under heavy fire, and tried to understand how he had managed to find himself in such lousy situation. It was so much easier in the Army. Every day, they lived under the threat of being killed or wounded. Or survive for another week and move to another base, where they would wait for new assignment with the lack of hot water, disgusting food and almost not sleeping to the accompaniment of exploding shells and the groans of the wounded. Everything was simpler and fairer there.

“Johnny ...” John could not stand it when they called him that, but never corrected Bill. Now it was a crude inhospitable Britain instead of dusty unfriendly Afghanistan. And he had a feeling that nothing had changed. It frightened him, really frightened him.

He quietly opened the door and walked into the kitchen where the young girl was cooking – she’d be pretty if she’d wash the makeup off. The girl who Bill had no doubt been fucking all night. She gave John an appraising glance and knowing wink.

“Smells tasty.” Finally Bill came in to the kitchen.

Breakfast was spent in an uneasy atmosphere. John did not look at his friend, and Bill in his turn did not take his eyes off him. John did not want to change anything, especially now. Therefore, he hurried to say his goodbye and headed for the door.

In a moment, Bill grabbed his arm preventing him from leaving.

“What have you decided? I know that look.”

“You're wrong,” lied John. “I have something to do, so you should let me go.”

And again he lied. And Bill knew it. He knew him too well by now.

“Good. Well, Johnny, if you say so.”

Beyond the threshold of Bill’s flat , John was greeted by the usual London day. Before he could walk even twenty metres, he heard the first phone call. Then another and another. Unable to withstand the hysterical trills, reaching for him from all sides, he went to a nearby phone booth and picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“Good morning , Doctor Watson. Now, close to you, a black sedan will stop. I ask you to sit in it.”

Something caught his attention. John looked closely at the camera of the adjacent building, that was directed at him. He looked around. Cameras from all the nearest buildings turned in his direction. John froze.

A black car stopped not far from him, and John could do nothing else but sit inside.

“Hello, Mycroft. You know, you're too pushy.”

“I just really want you to agree, John. And I would be happy to pay you a substantial sum on an ongoing basis to make your life easier.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not a rich man.”

Or maybe because your brother is so insufferable, thought John but he didn't say that aloud. Instead he asked:

“In exchange for what?”

“For help. You saw with your own eyes that Sherlock cannot always take care of himself. Who knows how much he needs constant supervision. You have surprised him. And he liked you. And Sherlock likes no one… with rare exceptions.”

“With all due respect to you, Mycroft, I will not change my decision.”

“If your only reason for refusal is rejection of a certain habit...” Holmes Senior, as much as possible, tactfully tried to bypass a single word. The key word.

“Drug addiction, you mean.”

“Then he is clean. For five years, he has not been taken anything stronger than nicotine.”

“Oh!”

John understood that he needed time to think, really think over that.

“I need time.”

“Where do you want me to stop the car?”, Mycroft replied, quickly.

“Here, please.”

John looked around in confusion. Now he knew about the chase. Let them look, let them see, he had nothing to hide. And he really looked like he felt. Like shit right now.

He had wandered aimlessly all day around the city until the leg began to really hurt, recalling an old injury. He sat at a bus stop, when his feet demanded rest, and looked at passers-by. People around him were in a hurry, engaged in their daily affairs.

After the needed rest he continued to wander around, mingling with the crowd and looking at the colourful displays. He was dizzy from all the faces and colours, but he eagerly watched all the people passing by and tried to figure out what was wrong with him.

Why couldn’t he live like others, a quiet measured life, without the danger and constant stress? Why couldn’t he let go of the past, as he had so often promised himself to do so, and just live?

His mobile phone rang in his pocket, letting him know there was a new message. He stopped in the middle of the street, causing discontented muttering from the people around him.

Baker Street 221 B. Come at once if convenient. SH.

So simple. He was not going to answer, saw no point in that. The following text messages forced him to smile involuntarily.

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.

John was so tired of aimlessly wandering through the city. He didn't know the reason he was needed by both brothers, but they clearly had some goal. Therefore, he knew that Sherlock was not finished with him.

Could be dangerous. SH.

And John decided.

________________________________________________________________

(1) I’m alright. Will call as soon as I could.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for Librarianmum from fanfiction.net helped me with betting this text)))

John stood in the doorway surveying the room. Windows, doors, furniture arrangement. Holmes was right, that was a habit that he could not get rid of and also saw no point of doing so. What he had already seen at Baker Street and in the room where he was standing right now was not consistent with his expectations. John couldn’t envisage Holmes as the type of man who would want to live in such a place, or even have an office here. However, he liked Mrs Hudson – a pleasant woman who immediately offered him a cup of tea, which he was forced to refuse. Watson really didn't know how his conversation with the man would turn out and how long it would take.

He tried not to stare at the whole disaster or the human skull on the mantelpiece. There were a lot of suspicious flakes on the kitchen table and it strongly resembled a table surface in the laboratory at Barts.

Holmes was lying down on the couch, and took no notice of John or paid any attention to his appearance. John had not come immediately after he’d decided to take part in this crazy adventure. For the rest of the evening he had weighed the consequences of the decision in his mind while searching for all the information he could find about the man. And now, the intuition that had saved his life at war more than once, appealed to him to turn around and not go even close to the harmless-looking house with a simple dark door and the plate 221 B.

When he reached out to knock, the door was opened unexpectedly. So he became acquainted with Mrs. Hudson, refused her invitation for tea and went upstairs to be greeted with complete indifference.

“Good evening,” said John hesitantly. He looked around once more, noticing an old armchair in front of the window, into which he was not averse to dipping. After long hours of walking, his leg was bothering him a bit.

“I looked you up online. Found your site – The Science of Deduction,” he said brightly, hoping to make reasonable conversation.

Holmes only slightly shook his head in acknowledgment of his words and returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. John frowned, he could perfectly imagine why this man might need a "nanny" to look after him, if his strange behaviour and rude manners were any hint.

Realizing that in this house he was never likely to be asked to sit down, John allowed himself to choose a chair beside the couch, and not the chair that he had noticed at first, and wearily sat down. From his sitting place John got a better view of all the strange things in this flat. After a more detailed examination, the apartment didn't seem miserable and gloomy, just a bit dark and cluttered. And elementary cleaning might did the trick. Watson remembered his own room – small and empty, and if you got rid of his few things – absolutely faceless. And the pink suitcase was the second bizarre thing after the skull.

"Hmm, nice case. Not sure it goes with the decor though."

A loud sigh made John shudder involuntarily. He found himself looking in bewilderment at Holmes's profile and dark hair scattered in the cheaply upholstered sofa and mentally asking himself the same question again and again: what was he still doing here?

“I know why you need all the money you can get.” This was the first thing he had heard from Holmes this evening.

“But…” John took a deep breath and asked calmly, “And why do I need money?”

“Gambling,” and after a short pause, he added, “Give me your cane.”

“What about my cane?”

Holmes abruptly sat up and became still, holding out a hand to John. And John had no choice but to put his cane on the outstretched palm.

“Your cane. It…” The beginning monologue was interrupted by hasty steps.

Holmes fell silent and looked angrily in the direction of the open door. Surprisingly John knew the visitor. Due to the specifics of his current work, he had once been involved with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Hello, Greg,” he said, shaking hands with undisguised amazement.

“Sherlock, you don't answer my calls.” Lestrade sighed wearily and threw an eloquent glance at John. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet.” A clearly irritated Holmes waved in the direction of the DI with a dismissive gesture, clearly denoting the end of the discussion.

Lestrade ruffled his short hair in annoyance and sighed again:

“If you find something, call me. Please.”

John had no choice but to silently watch this interaction. After Greg's departure, a tense silence hung between them.

“You have questions.”

“Police don't consult amateurs.” It was really hard for him to imagine how one could determine that a person works as a programmer by his tie, or could calculate the pilot by the thumb of his left hand. DI Lestrade, in his opinion, was a man who knew his work. And he had only just read about Holmes as a detective a few hours ago. But just now in front of his eyes Greg had humbly asked Holmes for help.

“Your cane. Not of bad quality, comfortable and cheap. You wouldn’t be sorry to leave or to lose it. Scratches and dents eloquently speak about the fact that this cane is used not only as a mobility aid, but also as a defensive weapon. If you really needed a cane in daily life, you would choose a more reliable and probably more expensive one. But back to the dent. As an underground doctor you don't need to fight back especially from your patients. But as someone who constantly seeks adrenaline, besides trying to look inconspicuous and innocuous as possible, this thing can be really very helpful. Especially in the places where you are used to spending your free time. You love excitement and risk, and hence gambling. The marks of numbers above the wrist on your right hand show it as clear as day. I don't think you are lucky often. Hence, a constant need of money.”

John angrily pursed his lips and frowned. His passion for gambling often became a problem. And although in the Army he had somehow managed to control himself, his return to London had set him off again. It was hard to stop when you were involved in the underground world of gambling and betting, and you did not have the desire or incentive to resist…

“Your familiarity with Lestrade indicates that you have crossed each other before, either as an informer or a witness. The latter is more likely. The area where you are, so to speak, working, doesn't apply to his responsibility. The DI has his own informants. I think you met during some case as a witness. After that I suppose he called you to work as forensic surgeon. Psychosomatic pain in the leg and a slight tremor in your hand put an end to your career as a doctor, and even there you'd have to expect to be only an assistant. You can do better and therefore refused. In addition, the pay there is not much, in contrast to the underground doctors’ pay.”

With a confident gesture, Holmes threw the cane somewhere behind the sofa.

“There - you see you were right.”

“I was right? Right about what?”

“Police don't consult amateurs. When they are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

John could barely suppress the urge to jump to his feet and start walking in circles around the room. Holmes was right about almost everything.

“That was… extraordinary,” he repeated to himself. John was still trying to figure out what he was feeling more – surprise or anger, but Holmes's conclusions were really amazing. “And brilliant.”

“You know that you say that out loud.”

“Sorry. I won't do that.”

“No... It's all right. That's not what people usually say.”

“And what do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John smiled, he could well imagine why that might be.

Holmes settled again on the couch, flipping through some police reports and muttering something about someone’s phone. John thought he would be ignored again. But it seemed the detective had plans for him.

“On my desk. There is a number. I want you to send a text.” He didn’t even bother to look in the direction of John, who carefully got up and walked to the table. The paper with the needed number was lying in plain view, as if waiting only for him.

“These words exactly. What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.”

John barely managed to handle his mobile which he had not learned to use properly.

“You doing it?... Done?”

“Hang on,” he muttered still typing text. After a minute, he responded with relief, “Done.”

This time, John decided to wait in the chair in front of the window. It was really as comfortable as it seemed. Having nothing better to do he picked up the newspaper so invitingly lying in the armrest. The headline screamed at him about strange suicides.

“Hmmm… Strange” John flipped through the pages. He had vaguely heard about suicides disturbing London, but only now had he time to carefully study all the available information given by the press.

“Mm?” Holmes was paying attention to him after all.

“I don’t think it’s that simple. Sounds to me like murders. Twisted, genius, but still murders. “

“Good, very good. John,” purred Holmes.

“Do you live here?” he hastily decided to change the topic. If he didn’t, the detective certainly seemed to spend lot of time here. John found it to be rather strange choice for an office. Although, given what he’d managed to learn about Holmes during their brief acquaintance, not a surprise. Dull and routine were hardly words to associate with this man.

“Noooo…. But I consider it an option.”

John was prepared to wait. He vaguely wondered for what exactly. But what he knew best was how to wait. In this he was a master. In his thirty-eight years he had honed this skill to perfection. And learned to accept calmly everything that happened around and to him.

Holmes noisily pushed a police report aside, stood up suddenly and walked towards John across the coffee table, stepping on it in the process.

“As you have already realized, I want us to work together.”

John shuddered. Now all he needed to understand was what was left unsaid. He could hardly imagine what Holmes might want from him. What kind of help might be needed by a detective?

“I won't break the law for you.”

“You are breaking it for yourself. And you are a doctor. Good?”

“Very good.”

“We would be amazing together.”

Holmes was looming over him with his hand pressed against the chair near John's head. The sleeve of his expensive shirt tickled the bare skin of John’s neck. But John did not dare to move to get rid of the touch to his sensitive skin. He could only stare in amazement into the cold gray eyes.

“So will I be some kind of assistant?”

“I seek a partnership.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Do I sound like I am joking?”

John was staring in wonder at the face with high cheekbones and sensual lips, when he was rather unceremoniously forced out of the chair and then pushed in the direction of the exit.

“Wait a second! Where are you taking me?”

“We are leaving.” Holmes sighed dramatically, expressing dissatisfaction with John’s evident lack of intelligence.

“Wait! Let’s clear some things up first. What do you mean by a partner? And what do you want me to do? We haven't even discussed working conditions!”

The detective stopped short, then walked thoughtfully around him, his hands in his pockets. With a strange expression in his cold eyes, Holmes looked him from the bottom-up to finally stop at his lips.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted suddenly. “Mrs. Huuudson!”

“What's the matter, Sherlock?” the woman panted, a little out of breath. John glanced reproachfully in the direction of Holmes, but was ignored.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. From now on he will be your second tenant.”

“What?”

“Of course, Sherlock. As you say.”

“It's more convenient this way. You'll always be here, if I need you,” Holmes declared, brushing away potential objections from John, who tried with little-to-no success to get a word in edgeways as the detective and his landlady discussed a second set of keys and his moving arrangements.

“But you said that you are not living here.”

“I will from now on.”

“Yeah, and for a start it wouldn’t hurt to throw out all this stuff. Is this a human skull?”

“I can clean up a bit. And yes. My friend.” Holmes walked around the room, pausing briefly by the mentioned skull.

“What do you think, Dr. Watson?” Mrs Hudson approached him. “There’s a second bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing separate ones.”

“Of course, we'll need separate bedrooms.” John frowned, already mentally resigned to move in. He suddenly realized that he would have had to start looking for a flatmate in the near future. He had always wanted to live in London, but without a flat share, he very soon would not have been able to afford it. And, of course, he had imagined that his likely flatmate would have been a completely different person from Holmes. But it seemed no one was going to be interested in his opinion.

“Don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here.” She leaned forward and whispered confidentially: “My neighbour Mrs. Turner’s got married ones!”

John did not believe his ears. The lovely woman even winked at him. Maybe something had escaped his attention, something important. He tried to burn holes in Holmes with his glare, but the detective ignored him while busying himself with putting stacks of paper in different places.

“We’re going out, Mrs. Hudson. We'll be late. Don't wait up.”

“Has it something to do with those three suicides?”

“Four! Four improbable suicides,” the pleased detective assured his landlady. “And there is no point in sitting at home when finally there’s something fun going on!”

“Look at you, so happy. It's not decent,” laughed Mrs. Hudson.

“Who cares about propriety.” Holmes hurried to the front door. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

After this strange statement, they left Baker Street and hurried off through the busy London streets. John was puzzled. He hadn’t managed to get much clarity about his so-quickly changed status.

Looking at the back in a dark coat in front of him, John sadly pondered over what exactly Holmes might expect of him. There were enough skilled professionals in the police force to be a mere consultant for Holmes. Watson did not understand how his skills in treating living patients might help a detective in the disclosure of cases where the victims, with rare exceptions, tended to be already dead. And what were these experiments on which he worked in his spare time?

“Where are we heading?” He decided it was time to find out. If he was going to be at least somehow helpful, he had to know what was going on in the detective’s life.

“Northumberland Street is a five minute walk from here. Are you hungry?”

Comprehensive response. John had had no time to adjust to the sweeping step of Holmes before they walked in a small cozy café. Very normal, with the usual clientele. He would have chosen this place if he wanted to eat. The waiter pointed them to a table by the window.

“Thank you, Billy.” Everything in Holmes’ behaviour screamed regular customer. And yes, he even had a favourite table. John looked around. He took off his jacket and forced himself to sit down with his back to the window.

“Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want – free. On the house for you and your date.” They were greeted by a big man with a pleasant appearance. For some reason, John imagined that the owner of such an establishment must look exactly like this man.

“Do you want something to eat?”

“I'm not his date.”

“This man got me off a murder charge,” the man began, excitedly, not paying any attention to his words. This earned him a pleased smile from Holmes. He even found it necessary to introduce him to John:

“This is Angelo. Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that during a triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of the town housebreaking.”

They exchanged a firm handshake.

“I will get a candle for this table. It's more romantic.”

When Angelo walked away from their table, John bent over to Holmes and whispered angrily:

“Everyone thinks we are a couple. Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend…. No, not really my area.”

“Do you have a boyfriend? Which is completely fine, by the way,” he added, hastily.

Holmes frowned. “I know it’s fine.”

“Do you have one?”

“No.”

Angelo brought a candle. John only pursed his lips with displeasure and stared at the menu. He decided to use the offer of a free dinner and chose pasta with bacon and mushrooms. If not for Holmes’ strange behaviour he would have mistaken this for a date.

“Let's be clear…”

“What else don't you understand?” The detective sounded almost exasperated.

John frowned and folded his hands in front of him on the table.

“Well excuse me, but I can’t work out what you expect from me? Why do we have to live together if I'm to be only a hired worker? By the way, my status as a wage-worker….”

He did not understand how it happened. By a steady hand he was pulled by his neck close, very close to the other man’s face:

“600 pounds per week plus living at Baker Street at my expense, I hope, will save me from your further doubts.”

They practically lay on the table, staring into each other's eyes. For a moment it seemed to John he would be kissed. And when Holmes, with smile in the corners of his mouth, took his hand away from John's neck and returned to the observation of the street outside the window, John did not know exactly what he felt to a greater extent: surprise or relief.

“I can't stay with you day and night, but I hope we can find a compromise.” He did not understand what just happened between them, but John Watson was able to pull himself together. And the sum compensated for any inconvenience.

“What are your thoughts about these murders?”

From the scraps of heard conversations and news, he realised that he knew very little even after reading the paper. Holmes didn’t even turn his head in his direction, so John had nothing to do but to go over all the information at his disposal. Suddenly, he froze.

“I texted a killer. At your request I texted a killer. Now he has my number.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter?” John was beside himself with indignation. “And hiding evidence from the police also doesn't matter now? Or will you assert that that pink bag is really yours, and you just love a flashy appearance?”

He fiercely poked his pasta with a fork and tried to decide what he was going to do. There was at least one thing that he could do. He surreptitiously sent a message to Lestrade and returned to his supper. Holmes didn’t seem to notice.

The feeling that he was being closely watched was getting familiar to him. It was impossible to ignore. Especially from a man with such a piercing gaze.

“What?” John met Holmes's gaze and for the first time he felt truly out of his depth. He did not know what he had done or said to deserve such attention, but the detective's focus had definitely shifted from the street to him.

“You think he is stupid enough to turn up?” John shrugged.

“Nooo…. I think he is clever. He is brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They are so desperate to get caught.”

“Why?”

“Appreciation. Applause. The chance to get in the spotlight, in the end. It's a fault of geniuses, John. They need an audience.”

“Yes.” John's eyes narrowed. He wondered why Holmes has decided that he would be an appropriate audience for him. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so openly impressed by the detective's words. But all the deductions were really amazing. The logical chain presented in short clear sentences and he could see the complete result of the work of a brilliant mind. John suspected that Holmes had not shared even half of what he had found out about him at their first meeting.

“Here he is hunting around. Right here in the heart of this city. Now we know that his victims were abducted and that changes everything. And all of them disappeared from busy streets, crowded places. And nobody saw… Who do we trust even if we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of the crowd?”

“Who?” Maybe if John asked leading questions, it would help to send the detective’s thought process in the right direction. Although he did not really believe that he could be helpful.

Holmes went back to his contemplation of the street and passers-by.

“Taxi. Stopped. Nobody going in. Nobody going out… Why taxi? Ohh, that's clever.”

“Is it him?” John quickly scanned the street for a suspicious taxi. His attention was immediately drawn by one. Indeed, now it seemed odd that he had not thought of it himself.

Holmes had already pulled on his coat, and John was left with no choice but to quickly grab his jacket and run after the detective.

“I know the car number and can contact Lestrade…” John, while running, was trying to get his phone from his pocket. Holmes grabbed his hand and pulled hard.

“We don't need to.”

And they ran.

He liked to feel the wind abruptly slashing his cheeks, liked to see the dark gaps under his feet. Liked the feeling of falling, the moment when his legs were out from a stable surface, and he flew towards the next wall.

Adrenaline made his blood run faster through the veins; sharpened his eyesight and hearing, and John enjoyed every second of their chase. He was stuck by how thoroughly Holmes knew all the gateways and alleys of London. With every unexpected turn, the detective showed him the city from a new angle.

And John had not felt so alive for so long.

Their suspect was an Asian male, who could not be their killer. John had no time to calm his heartbeat as Holmes had already pulled him into another run. And only in the dark corridor on the first floor of Baker Street, he was able to catch his breath.

While looking through the missed calls on his mobile, he laughed softly. He did not even remember the last time he had so much fun. After being shot, a painful recovery and returning home, he hadn’t had much reason to be really happy.

“That was really good.” John leaned heavily against the wall. “That was the craziest thing I've ever done.”

Oops, he’d forgotten that he didn’t want to inflate Holmes’ bloated ego.

“You invaded Afghanistan.”

“It wasn't just me.”

John was surprised to see Holmes’ smile. Before that he had beheld only smirks and half-smiles. Now it was a real smile. He even felt embarrassed for his stupid laugh and sudden desire to smile as openly in return. So he hastened to hide his embarrassment by studying his phone.

All missed calls were important and he should not been ignoring them, but John was well aware that it was not in his power to zigzag through the dark streets and carry on a conversation at the same time.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mrs. Hudson looked really upset, nodding toward the stairs.

John looked away guiltily; he had forgotten that he had texted Lestrade about the pink bag. Back then, he was angry with Holmes, but even now he had almost no compunction. Detectives should not have to hide important clues from the police.

His phone rang again on the stairs. He stayed behind, watching as Holmes threw open the door in a rage and disappeared from sight. The next thing he heard was an indignant exclamation, but he had no time for that.

“What’s happened?” An excited voice on the other end was shouting at him. John closed his eyes wearily, unconsciously trying to isolate himself from the other man's words. “I don't know when I can come. What do you mean only me?... Got it. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

John cautiously peered into the doorway. People in police uniforms were looking for something all over the flat. Some of them he knew personally. Lestrade, looking very pleased with himself, was sitting in a chair and watching Holmes throw a tantrum.

“What’s going on here?” John asked, innocently.

“Drugs bust,” Greg explained, politely.

“Seriously?” John was instantly suspicious. He had been absolutely sure that Mycroft Holmes had told him the truth. He tried not to feel disappointed, but felt a bitter taste in his mouth.

“John-,” The pale-gray eyes looked at him with a strange expression. “–I'm clean.”

“If you say so, if you say so,” replied John, very quietly and with much less confidence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ))I shamelessly used ideas of my beta - Librarianmum, for my plot holes)))

After a heated argument with the Detective Inspector, involving much shouting and swearing, Holmes subsided almost sulkily into his armchair, grabbing his laptop and muttering about GPS locations. In John’s opinion Lestrade did not look even amused, just asking Holmes to cooperate.

“Her phone!” shouted detective. “It’s so obvious even your team could get that clue.”

He started tapping instructions feverishly into his laptop ignoring them all.

“He means that if victim’s phone was not found on her or in her suitcase then it could be with murderer.” John tried to smooth things by explaining Holmes’s reasoning as he understood it so far. And everything was ok until GPS clue gave nothing.

“Noooo! It can’t be right.” After that came new round of shouting.

When Mrs Hudson came in to report the arrival of a commissioned taxi – and started to get involved in the row too, Holmes left them abruptly, not bothering with explanations or even sharing his guesses. And the team had no choice but to depart. Not least because it had become obvious that they had wasted their time searching for non-existent drugs, of that fact, John was for some reason absolutely sure now.

He liked Sally, even Anderson he found more-or-less tolerable, but they, in fact Lestrade's entire team, clearly disliked Holmes. John had heard and learned a lot of interesting things about his employer and prospective flatmate, and it all boiled down to one thing – the world's one consulting detective was not easy to cope with. Well, John was not much surprised, all things considered.

“Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?” Lestrade was genuinely puzzled.

“You know him better than I do, Greg,” was John's calm answer. He began to feel a bit suspicious about the ease with which others seemed to accept his sudden appearance in the detective’s life.

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don't.”

“So why do you put up with him?” It was John's turn to be puzzled.

“Because I'm desperate, that's why.”

And John knew that feeling all too well. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to the DI. In parting, Lestrade made a strange remark, the sense of which John did not want to ponder.

“And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we are very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

John could only guess what Greg had in mind telling him that. He really didn’t believe that he could have a positive impact on a person like Holmes. Therefore he decided to simply ignore the possible hint.

After Lestrade's hasty withdrawal, John was standing at a loss in the middle of the empty room. The laptop screen glowed blue, its low hum sounding loud in the resounding silence. He looked around with regret, wondering how less than a day his life had turned from a bit boring and monotonous to complete chaos.

But now he was by himself again, John could return to his other problems, punctured by late night calls. And he should be where he was really needed, which meant that he needed to stop feeling sorry for himself and just leave.

The laptop suddenly beeped and lit up, drawing John's attention. He’d forgotten Holmes’ muttering over it earlier on, and moved towards it curiously. The screen showed a GPS-system, which appeared to be tracking a phone, and he suddenly realised what Sherlock had been doing. But the detective had left without waiting getting any result as it seemed. A chill ran down his spine. What was it Mrs Hudson had said earlier… a taxi?

The system had found the phone and, hence, the killer, but this time the red dot was moving indicating the route being taken along the streets of London. His heart skipped a beat. Perhaps for just moments like this, he let his life turn into chaos over and over again, but now he couldn’t care less.

John picked up the laptop and quickly ran down the stairs, grabbing his jacket along the way. Outside he jumped into the first taxi and gave directions. Before rushing in an unknown direction pursuing a potential murderer, he had to be prepared. And to be more accurate –armed.

Sitting back as the taxi drove through streets of London, John could only think about whether or not he would be in time. His intuition was telling him that this might be the last night in Holmes’ life. He was very sure the posh git had deliberately gone on his own to meet the killer while they all were arguing back at Baker Street.

When the dot finally stopped moving, John shouted the final directions to the taxi driver, and they arrived in a dark, empty street. After overpaying the less-than-impressed driver, John jumped out and ran over to check out an abandoned cab. Nothing remarkable, except for a scrappy photo. And nothing more. Nothing that could tell him anything about the man who had already sentenced four people to death.

He checked the laptop again. Unfortunately, no matter how modern the GPS-system was, it couldn’t specify in which of the two absolutely identical buildings he should look for Holmes and the mysterious killer. The only thing he could do was to choose at random and hope he was not mistaken. For the sake of speed, he dropped the laptop onto the back seat of the cab and made his decision.

Running alone through dark corridors was not as exciting as runing after Holmes driven by instincts and knowledge of all the dead ends and detours. In addition, John could not allow something to happen to the detective. Even with their brief acquaintance and uncertain prospect of working together, he felt responsible for the other man’s life.

He guessed that drugs were not only one of Holmes's addictions. Excitement mixed with adrenaline and desire to prove that he was smarter than everyone else, was a much more dangerous mixture. Add to this his inflated self-importance and the apparent disregard for his own safety and as result, it appeared that no one else but John Watson was available to help him. He had to methodically search for Holmes floor by floor in the dark.

“Sherlock!”

A dim light in the window of the opposite building had accidentally attracted his attention, and it eventually became the only chance of salvation for Holmes in the current circumstances. The detective was also very lucky that John had great night vision and was able to shoot straight.

He did not want to kill. Pulling a gun out of the table's drawer while a taxi was waiting for him, John did not think he would have to shoot in cold blood. And worse – kill someone. And now his main priority was to be as far away from the killed cabbie, from the police he had anonymously called and from Holmes as humanly possible. 

But first he had to retrieve the laptop from the abandoned cab, try to discreetly return it to Baker Street and finally return to his business. Affairs that, in general, were not associated with saving life of an arrogant detective.

He was able to distinguish the sounds of approaching sirens and quickened his pace. John only once allowed himself to turn around. He could see a dark figure frozen on the porch but chose to ignore the man. He knew the heavy feeling of being watched when every action, every movement were stored and analyzed.

John turned and took out his phone.

“Where are you?... All right, I will be there in 40 minutes or so.” He very much hoped that he would actually get to Harry's apartment in 40 minutes. Although he’d managed to delay the family reunion he still could not avoid it.

The sound of his footsteps echoed hollowly in the dark street, bouncing off the walls of abandoned buildings and warehouses. A decent citizen had nothing to do in this area of London this late at night, so John just pulled up the collar higher, holding back a desire to start running.

No sane cabbie would have picked him here, so Watson had already walked two blocks. Only near a busy highway was he able to catch a cab, which drove him to Harry’s flat.

He heard loud shouts even from the stairs. It was surprising that the neighbours hadn’t called the police. Although it was also very possible that they were just accustomed to this. John had to knock a long time before he was finally heard. All the way here, he had been mentally preparing himself to what would come.

Clara and Harry. Harry and Clara. And he himself.

“Harry.”

“Oh, my baby-brother….” Matted blond hair and pale face. He didn’t want to remember his sister like this.

“John, tell her!” 

“No more of it! Especially for him!”

“You've to go to the clinic! You need help!”

He’d seen variations of this scene many times. However quickly he came, everything went according to the same scenario and ended about the same. Clara, his sister’s ex, slammed the door and he could tend to his sister. And every damn time he could not get rid of the feeling that what was happening suited absolutely everyone except him.

When he’d finally put Harry to bed, tidied up slightly and left, it was already very late at night. John had seriously considered the option of staying overnight on a narrow uncomfortable couch, but the prospect of communicating with his hung-over sister in the morning did not appeal to him.

Imagine his surprise when a familiar beautiful woman came out to him from a familiar car.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Hello there,” John greeted her sadly. He had no desire to deal with either Holmes right now. “Tell Mycroft, I'm tired, need to go home and will meet him any time tomorrow.”

After a short pause, spent as he guessed on passing his request to her superior, he was still kindly waved towards the car.

“Get in. Please.”

The trip was comfortable but not particularly pleasant. And the presence of a beautiful woman who was typing constantly did not brighten his mood in the slightest. After a brief exchange of courtesies, John knew only her fake name and that she had no desire to maintain a conversation with him. He could only silently watch the changing scenery outside and think.

He had a strong suspicion that, from now on, everything that happened to him would be somehow connected with Sherlock bloody Holmes.

It was kind to give him a lift to his flat so he did not have to go back through the city. He would hardly have been able to explain himself to a random patrol if they found the gun on him.

The dark flat greeted him with silence. Only after turning on the lights did John realize what had confused him in the outline of familiar objects. His things were nowhere to be seen. He examined the wardrobe and the bedside tables – there was nothing left. And he knew exactly who was behind this.

Jumping several steps at once, John hastened to go down in the hope that that the black car had not had time to move far and there would be no need for him to get to Baker Street on foot with no hope of catching a taxi. To his surprise the car was still present at the very same spot.

“Want a lift?” asked Anthea, not looking up from the screen.

“If you would be so kind.” John didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm.

He did not even have to say the address. As soon as the door slammed behind him, the car moved forward smoothly, and again he was left only to enjoy the night life.

Despite the very late hour, the door was opened by Mrs. Hudson who gently patted him on the shoulder and pushed him towards the stairs. Of course, first of all he had to make sure that his conjectures were correct.

“I’m here to bring your laptop back and make sure…” John pushed the door open wide and abruptly broke off. The room was full of boxes, he even saw a sleeve of one of his sweaters hanging invitingly from one.

“I decided not to delay your move in here,” explained Holmes, rising to meet him. It was as if nothing had happened earlier that evening. “But I didn’t unpack until you chose a bedroom.”

John rubbed his eyes wearily and gathered his thoughts. His prepared speech was forgotten in instant. He just needed more time to think over what had happened to him.

“Is there a bedroom upstairs?”

“Yes.”

John threw the laptop on a chair and walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.

++**++

Something prevented him from sleeping peacefully. Some kind of idea, a vague sense of anxiety at the edge of consciousness. His usual nightmares gently flowed from a dream to an uneasy slumber full of the sounds of an unknown building and the street outside.

John finally woke up and tried to make out the outlines of his new room in semidarkness. After his dramatic departure from the living room, he had flown up the stairs and immediately locked the door. Looking around and not noticing anything unusual, he had turned to a closet to find clean linen and made the bed. This simple activity had calmed him down, so in the end he was able to get some sleep.

Thoughts tossed clumsily around his head, not allowing him to focus on anything in particular. After all the walking and excitement, John felt drained and exhausted and now couldn’t sleep properly.

Why, of all the possible people, had Holmes chosen him? Why had he, John Watson, decided to trust Holmes? He found it easy to get on with people, being by nature a friendly and sociable person, but to become friends with him, a potential candidate had to pass the test, as John called it himself. If they got the required number of points at that level – welcome to the next. And it had been like that for the entirety of his adult life.

It was much easier in the Army. The system not only stripped you of your individuality but also allowed you to see everything in a different light, including relationships. First and foremost, relationships.

He had never had occasion to complain of the speed of his reaction to sudden threats, but as he drew his gun from under the pillowand pointed it at the other man's chest, he already knew he was too late. Did not have time to react, to remove the safety catch and, most important – to notice a threat.

Of all things, John Watson did not like to lie even in cases of extreme necessity, least of all to himself. And he could not ignore the facts when they were so obvious. From the very first minutes of their strange acquaintance he had not seen a threat in Sherlock Holmes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to make sure you are comfortable.” Holmes pushed his hand with the gun to the side.

“And? Satisfied?” John tried to pull a blanket higher to shield his body from that piercing gaze, but all his attempts were unsuccessful.

“Yes…. You're very quiet and have trained yourself not to cry even while having nightmares.”

John sat down sharply; he did not want to sleep any more. But he also wanted to shove the man now sitting on his bed onto the floor. Or simply to explain the basic rules of conduct with strangers who did not like it when someone broke into their bedroom in the middle of the night. But in the end he just decided to radically change the subject of their discussion. Ok, he doubted that he would get rid of Holmes that easily, but one could always try. And now he had the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.

“What does Mycroft do for a living?”

“As my dear brother likes to say, he has a minor position in the British government.”

“Hardly believable.”

“Still he is perhaps the most dangerous man in your life, but right now I’m not interested in discussing my brother.” Hot breath suddenly enveloped the skin near his ear. John tried to more away, but an escape route was blocked by his own pillow.

“Then maybe you need help with something? Some experiment?” John wanted to move their talk as quickly as possible to a professional basis.

The silence was his only answer. Then he felt the bed shifting under the weight of Holmes, as he rolled over to other side. John could not help but notice displeasure when it was so clearly demonstrated. 

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“Sorry what?”

“I play violin when I think. And sometimes I don't talk for days. We need to know the worst about each other.”

“I don't think it's the worst,” growled John. It seemed he was not the only one who liked to change the subject in the middle of a conversation.

“You're right but you will have time to get used to me.” And with that enigmatic comment, Holmes left the room, much to John’s relief.

++**++

The next morning began with John Watson searching for his toothbrush. He first of all dragged a few boxes with his stuff upstairs. Arranging the sweaters and shirts on the shelves, he quietly wondered at how carefully his clothes were folded and how all the fragile items were packed.

Homes had had no more than two hours to arrange his hasty move-in, though there were not a lot of things to begin with. And John did not like the idea of someone else digging through his underwear. Although, most likely, everything had been organized by Mycroft.

Remembering the night invasion, he checked the lock. There were no visible signs of a break-in, but he clearly remembered locking the door from the inside. Well, he understood hints, although that didn’t mean he had to like it.

A careful and thoughtful examination of his new room in the morning light did not reveal anything interesting. A completely normal room. Mrs. Hudson was a nice old lady, but she did not really bother to care for her own property when with a proper approach these apartments could bring her considerable income.

An inspection of the bathroom and kitchen showed mixed results. John reluctantly agreed that it was possible to live in comfort in his new surroundings, but for now he should conduct a spring clean. Which he was going to do immediately after breakfast and a trip to the nearest supermarket for the necessary cleaning products. And after the inspection of the contents of the refrigerator and kitchen shelves he had to abandon the idea of breakfast in the flat as there was nothing more or less suitable for the purpose.

Only once he was outside did he realize that he had not seen Holmes that morning. And he was not sure he wanted to.

After a long-awaited sip of tea and a light breakfast in the café downstairs, John decided to visit Lestrade; he wanted to clarify something with Greg.

The DI's department at New Scotland Yard was full of hustle and sounds as usual. Lestrade waved at him in greeting through the glass. It seemed his phone conversation was not a pleasant one, so John decided to wait for him outside the office.

He did not believe that Sally Donovan just wanted to come over for a casual chat. They had never really talked, just exchanged meaningless words of greeting and that was all.

“Hello, John.”

“Good morning, Sally. How are things?”

“The criminal world of London will never leave us without work… John, what links you to Sherlock Holmes?” He liked Sergeant Donovan for her bluntness, though sometimes her straightforwardness made him feel slightly awkward. 

“I…. I will work as his assistant.” John put his clenched hands in his jacket pockets, wondering why he felt like he was confessing to something shameful.

“I understand. He is a true genius. But I want to give you some advice. Stay as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible.”

“Why?”

“Do you know why he is here? He is not paid or anything. He just likes it. He gets off on it. The more complicated the case, the better. And know what, John? Someday it won't be enough. One day we'll stand around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to put it there.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he is a sociopath. Sociopaths get bored. You are a good man and I really don't want to see you become a victim of his boredom.”

John shuddered. He knew that it was too late for that kind of warning. And, once again, it was all about the one and only Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“John, come in.” He exchanged a firm handshake with Lestrade. “Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

“Greg, do you have some free time now?”

“For you - of course. You wanted to know something?” Lestrade nodded to a chair.

“I wanted to ask you about Holmes. Greg, you mentioned that you’ve known him for a long…”

“Yes, I mentioned that we’ve known each other for more than five years, but it doesn't mean anything. I refer to him in the most extreme cases. You saw for yourself he is not the most pleasant person to work with. Moreover, he refuses to even glance at most of the files considering them to be not worthy of his attention and time. Will you be his assistant?”

“Yes. The pay is good and…”

“I don't want you to think that I, or someone from the team, don't want you to work with him,” Lestrade hastily interrupted him, ruffling his hair restlessly. “Quite the contrary.”

“You think I can have a good influence on him?”

“I'm sure of that. And John… If I only knew…. I mean…”

Lestrade fell silent, not finishing his thought. John even thought that the DI was a little embarrassed. It seemed a good moment to make his rather unusual request. 

“Greg, can I have a look at the cases Holmes has helped with?”

Lestrade nodded wearily and promised to give him a list of every single one involving Holmes and only asked in return that it remained between them. Of course John agreed; he just wanted to know for himself that Holmes was really as good as everything suggested he was. It was one thing to tell the history of one's life at one glance, and quite another to solve crimes and bring justice.

After parting with Greg, John went to Tesco. And then, with his hands full of packages, he waited for Mrs. Hudson to open the door for him.

Cleaning up the kitchen floor he looked around with a sigh of relief. John had no plans to clean up or throw away any of Holmes’ experiments, he simply hoped to create some free space from the suspicious-looking bowls, pots and dishes. He suspected from the very start that it would not be easy for him. When he finally finished with the kitchen and bathroom, he felt hungry and a bit angry. Sinking wearily into the chair and stretching his legs, he wanted to rest a bit and then to try to prepare a simple late lunch, or early dinner all considering.

Mrs. Hudson, who had stopped by to drop off his newly cut key and to check on him, went through the small kitchen, she even looked in the fridge. Her behaviour spoke louder than words – she clearly did not expect much from him as a new tenant and was pleasantly surprised now.

“I’ll make you a cuppa,” she said, complacently.

“Damn it!... Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes…” John took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. He just liked for everything to be neat and in order, and really did not enjoy cleaning up after others.

“A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.” Now he was ashamed of his outburst. Mrs. Hudson did not deserve such behaviour. If anyone deserved it, it was Holmes, who was currently absent.

John always controlled his temper and emotions perfectly, but when his ordered boring life was collapsing under the pressure of circumstances, it was difficult for him to remain unmoved.

“Only this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too. If you got them.”

“Not your housekeeper.”

John thought sadly that it seemed more likely that he’d be the housekeeper here. But he did not care. It was enough if he was well paid and not asked to do something illegal.

Holmes's behaviour indicated an inflated ego, inflated beyond any measure of self-esteem, a lack of respect for others, the rejection of basic social norms, a lack of self-preservation, but most of all, a confidence that the world revolved around him and for him. Add to this the knowledge that he could get away with almost anything, because of all the people who needed his help and assistance, and the detective became intolerable.

A sudden call distracted his sad thoughts. John apologized to Mrs. Hudson and hoped that later he would have an opportunity to learn from his elderly landlady something about Holmes. He also realized that she must know Holmes from a somewhat different angle than Lestrade and his team.

Clara's voice sounded frustrated and a little irritated.

“Are you free right now?”

“Where do you want to meet?” asked John; he decided to postpone the tea and the cookies for later.

“Pub on the corner.”

“When?”

“In an hour?”

“Deal.”

His day was not exactly full of work, important meetings or events, so John could afford an unscheduled meeting, and amazingly Clara, who had a full timejob, could apparently do so too.

He was met with the usual roar at the pub. He greeted the bartender and several regulars. He really liked the relaxed atmosphere and the sense that people did not care a bit about him. He was more than happy with that.

Clara had not arrived yet, so John took a pint and sat down at an empty table away from the entrance. He had never considered himself paranoid, though healthy suspicion was something he was rather comfortable with. And yes, he was somewhat surprised and not in a pleasant way that his sister's ex had called him and invited him to the type of establishment that she was not very fond of for obvious reasons.

Maybe it was too early to tell, but a vague sense of anxiety would not leave him. And if, a few months ago, he could put it down to coping with his adaption to civilian life and then on his confrontations with Harry, now he was simply not certain why he felt this way.

“Have you been waiting long?” asked Clara, sitting opposite him.

John looked at her over the edge of his glass; she looked overwrought and somewhat jerky.

“No. Not at all…”

After a moment's silence, she gave up:

“I… I'm sorry for my unexpected call,” she burst out and hesitated. Now John was really confused and agitated.

“What’s happened?”

Harry's ex wife relaxed at once:

“Perhaps this is all just nonsense, but lately it seems to me that I've been constantly watched… And not in the way that Harry watched me when she was at her jealous stage.”

“You think it's a stalker?”

“No…. I don't know. Sounds silly, but I can't shake this feeling of persecution.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual?” He had some not-unfounded suspicions of his own. Ok, he was pretty sure who could be behind this.

“Yes. No… I don't know! I just thought it would be a good idea to talk to you. You well.. have more experience in all this.. And…”

“I don't think it's something serious. But good you called me.”

His phone suddenly came to life forcing John to wince. The screen glowed invitingly.

Baker Street. Urgently. SH.

“You were in my room.”

“And? You don’t even sleep there.” John had only just stepped in when he was forced to make excuses. More precisely, he hoped that his voice did not sound apologetic although he did not know who he was trying to convince. He had only glanced at Holmes’ bedroom once just to check the correctness of his assumptions, and, of course, he was right.

Holmes pulled up the corner of his mouth. He quickly ran his eyes up and down John and frowned. Watson suppressed the desire to follow the other man's example and also look at himself. He smelled of the pub, which was not a bit surprising, but in spite of this there was nothing odd or strange in his appearance. Dark jeans and handy jacket, not new, but he never sought out fashion unlike some, if expensive shirts and suits were any indicator.

“I had to hurry up and get across town just for this?” John decided to clarify. For some reason he did not hope that the detective would dissuade him otherwise.

“Not only,” - Holmes vaguely replied, and when John tried to take off his jacket quickly added. “Don’t bother - we're going out. And take your gun, it might be useful. Don't pull a face, of course I know you have a weapon.”

In fact, with these simple words, began three very difficult days for John, during which he really had not eaten, slept in total no more than 15 hours and accompanied Holmes to the kind of places that he had tried to avoid at all cost, even during his troubled youth. And he did not have to shoot, even though all sorts of things happened to them.

It was strange to see how appropriate Holmes looked in the luxury apartment where the murder was committed, but also in the London slums where the investigation led them. John had to make calls to Lestrade with a breathless voice while running to report their movements. He did not relish the idea that because of the detective's negligence, the evidence would never get to court or worse, because of an inability to produce it in court, to trial at all.

Holmes had not slept, ate almost nothing and still managed to look fresh and rested at the end of the third day when the case was triumphantly solved, John was barely standing on his feet and was dreaming of finally sleeping in his bad, without having to sound calm and cheerful while talking to a drunken Harry.

Being a good citizen, John voluntarily endured the tedious preparation and signing of numerous protocols and statements. The whole time he was talking to Lestrade's team, Holmes nervously cut circles around them but evidently preferred not to intervene. When his patience was finally exhausted, he just rudely grabbed John by the arm and led him away from the bustling police, crowd of curious people, cars, hubbub and the entire bustle.

“That’s the first and the last time you will so uselessly waste my time. Tomorrow Lestrade will appear with the necessary papers and you'll just sign them where needed.”

In the taxi on their way back home, John almost fell asleep, but different thoughts were keeping him from finally sliding into oblivion. Holmes had not just untied a high-profile case, he had also reopened a dead case. And more than once John had had occasion to contemplate the detective's genius and utter disregard for the feelings of others. He’d waved off threats and insults as easily as he waved off “not interesting” cases. And for all his actions he had always had one excuse – functioning sociopath.

They were met with peace and quiet at Baker Street. John stood in the kitchen over the kettle and could not decide whether he could live without a cuppa and couple of crackers, which he knew were waiting for him on the high shelf in the left cabinet over the sink. He’d put them there himself three days ago.

“Now you don’t have to waste time reading Lestrade's reports. You saw with your own eyes how I work and how good I am.” Holmes stood behind him. John felt the hot breath on his hair, which made him very uncomfortable.

“Indeed. I don’t need to worry about that, do I?” John muttered, not without sarcasm, his remarks addressed to the kettle. Suddenly, his arm was grabbed and he was pulled around aggressively.

Gray eyes peered intently into his face. John did not know what Holmes wanted to see in his features and what he actually saw. If not for the strong hand holding him confidently, he would have slid to the floor out of sheer exhaustion. It seemed that the idea of having a late tea was not a good one.

If Holmes needed a companion he was ready to become one, God only knew, the man really needed one. John nervously licked his chapped lips trying to find the sand that did not exist.

John Watson did not consider himself someone special or significant. Just an ordinary man with ordinary desires. Ok, maybe not every normal person would leave a successful medical career, family and friends to enlist in the army. Perhaps not every doctor that gave the Hippocratic oath, would take a gun and use it for its intended purpose. Maybe not every written-off surgeon with a slight tremor in his hands would earn his money pulling out bullets and patching up criminals, thieves and murderers. But no one could say he didn’t consider himself the most ordinary man with simple needs.

For months, his most cherished wishes had been to help his sister and sort out his gambling debts. So when he was taken upstairs to his room, rudely pushed into the bed and ordered to sleep, John just took everything as it was.

He had energy only to pull off a sweater and throw off his shoes. He knew too well that in the morning he would feel uncomfortable. John could not bear to sleep in street clothes, it was too close to his restless sleep on duty in a field hospital in Afghanistan. The idea of the shower was rejected as inappropriate and not feasible at this time.

John ran his thumb wearily over his lips. They were burning as if he had been kissed.

To his surprise, Holmes didn’t mention a word about what had happened in the kitchen that night, not in the morning nor a few days later. Which John would have been happy to forget but could not get out of his head.

Lestrade came just two days later, with all the necessary papers. As Holmes had predicted, Greg gave him some blanks and reports to sign. John without any hesitation agreed to be a witness at the trial, which aroused deep gratitude in the DI. He would have agreed anyway, but he was pleased to know that he would be helping not just to bring some justice but also assisting DI Gregory Lestrade, who he was developing a great deal of respect for.

He liked Lestrade. Honest, open, a little trite, always impeccably dressed and always pleasant to talk to. A couple of times they even went to pub to have a pint. John was aware that Greg was in the process of divorcing, and spent all his time at work was not the most useful solution in his situation. And now they had another thing in common to discuss – Sherlock Holmes.

John had long ceased to visit his psychoanalyst. From the beginning he regarded their sessions as useless and redundant, but one advice he nevertheless decided to follow: to write a blog. Besides, now he had something to write about. Previously, he simply could not share the impression of extracting two bullets without anaesthesia in a dark room of a random club, but now he enthusiastically wrote in his blog about Holmes and their cases.

John Watson shut the lid of his laptop with a loud bang and reached for the phone. He well remembered that he had left it lying on the table this morning just after breakfast. There was no sign of it under books or anywhere on the table now. John checked all surfaces in the room on which he could automatically have left his mobile. The only logical explanation, the first coming to his mind was one – Holmes.

Only the detective might need his phone when he had a few on himself already. John strongly suspected not of them belonged to Holmes; who the rightful owners were, he could only dimly guess.

But the constant disappearance of his mobile into Holmes’ hands was not the detective’s only oddity. John did not see how, or where, he slept or ate. Holmes even got dressed somewhere else.

And this other place was, of course, his other apartment, where he probably ate normally and slept in peace, not tormented by the awful sound described as “playing the violin” by Holmes. Where he could look into his cupboards and fridge without finding something shocking in the form of body parts or something equally dreadful. Unlike John.

Holmes usually just suddenly appeared in his life and inexorably changed John's day to suit himself. Most often, when John was least expecting it, and was just going to drink tea or have a snack, or watch TV, or take a bath, or go to bed or head for one of Bill's shifts, so in the latter case, he would urgently have to find a replacement.

This time was no exception. John heard the door slamming just as he began to brew his tea. Reaching for the top shelf, where he had hidden all the clean mugs, John took out one more cup and made tea for two.

John put the two cups on the table and pushed one in the direction of the detective standing in the kitchen doorway. Holmes watched him while typing something into a phone. John's phone. What a git.

“What do I need to do to make you stop nicking my phone?”

“You can start calling me by my name. At least in your thoughts for now.”

“Hurry up,” Holmes impatiently tapped his fingers on the table.

John was not going to indulge the desires of a certain detective at the expense of his own health, so he did not hurry and chewed his dinner properly. It was his first normal meal in two days. At this rate, he wouldn’t need to worry about gaining any weight at all.

Injury, prolonged recovery and the constant stress in which he had lived since his return to civilian life had not had the best effect on his appearance. Now he constantly had to conceal the loss of muscle mass under shirts and sweaters. And coexistence with Holmes meant irregular meals and a constant lack of sleep.

“I'm almost finished.”

“Eating is boring.” Holmes frowned and with a theatrical gesture pushed the plate away from John.

He could not help but marvel at the other man's mind and attention to details, even while he was quietly, to himself heartily, wanting to punch Holmes. Feelings of hostility lived peacefully side by side with a sense of admiration for the man.

“You know you are just impossible, right?”

“And you are not the only one constantly reminding me of that. Boring.”

John chuckled and hurried to pull on his jacket. Any delay could lead to him being exposed to the cold air as he was – in a shirt and light sweater. Two days ago, when he was just agonizing over the mundane dilemma of whether to make himself tea or watch TV, he hadn’t expected Holmes to suddenly appear, though he should have foreseen this particular scenario – namely to be forcibly pulled out into the street without a coat to escort Holmes to the next case.

Typically the detective's clients were fairly wealthy or even extremely rich, but often his attention was attracted by the cases of the most ordinary people. The main thing they had in common was that they were interesting and could help to dispel the boredom from which Holmes suffered constantly. Another call from Lestrade promised just such a complicated incident.

Greg shook John's hand with obvious relief when they finally arrived at the crime scene.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Sorry?”

“You are good influence on Sherlock. When you are with him, his company can be even tolerable.”

“What’s happened here?” John decided to quickly change the subject.

“Murder.” The DI smiled at him. At that, John glanced reproachfully into Greg’s warm brown eyes and shook his head. Greg even tried to look guilty.

“Young male. The identity of the victim is being established. No traces of housebreaking.”

John looked around with some attention. A normal flat, the most commonplace, however expensive, furnishings. He watched Holmes enough to figure out how he applied his method. Of course, he was far from Sherlock in his observation skills, but he might as well try.

The body position was clearly indicating the fact that the death was sudden and, apparently, came almost instantly. And if the door was still intact then the victim had let his own killer in or he had entered in a different way. John checked the windows, one was open, and all the surrounding buildings outside. They were really too far away for a sniper. An examination of the body revealed nothing special to him. The guy had had no chance, and the shot in the head was a clear indicator of this.

After watching Holmes’ usual chaotic behaviour, John decided to join Lestrade near the wall. When Sherlock was in the mood, he willingly shared with them his conclusions and how he came up to them. But it seemed that today was not such a day.

“Sniper.” Holmes delivered his verdict aloud, returning again to his study of the corpse.

Lestrade went to the window and shook his head in doubt.

“It's impossible.”

“It was a first-class sniper,” Holmes answered irritably. “John, let's go.”

Only at the exit of the building, was Watson able to catch up with the detective. While he was saying a polite goodbye, Holmes was already pushing the door and apparently was not going to wait for him.

“Care to share your thoughts?”, John asked, not really expecting to get an answer. He was curious, even though his role as a glorified errand boy, who was only needed so the detective wouldn’t look ridiculous talking to himself in cabs or on the street, had never been particularly attractive to him.

Holmes, as expected, did not answer, passionately typing on his phone.

“You know, if it was a sniper, it’s only logical to check the trajectory of the bullet, find a building from which he presumably could shoot. Then check out who had access to it and so on.”

“You watch TV too much, John. And that is police work…. Besides, they still won't find him. Our sniper is too clever for that. So we'll go another way.”

John was surprised by the so-easily slipped in "our" and "we", but he decided not to give any value to it. And the next two days he decided to classify as a useful public work, during which he was lucky to be able to show once at Baker Street and get a change of clothes. He grabbed what was clean and went out again. And if he knew beforehand that the nights would be so bloody cold, he would have dressed more warmly. There was also a four-hour shift from Bill where he was fortunate to get some decent sleep, apart from that, he was out of luck.

Dinner was a nice but personally for him a rather vital exception, because while on the trail of an investigation Holmes ate nothing on principle, saying that refusing food sharpened his mental abilities. John was glad that such a rule was not extended to him.

At the exit of a restaurant, following yet another meal that was only consumed by the doctor, Holmes suddenly stopped to change direction, so John had to swerve at the last moment to avoid bumping into the detective's back.

A familiar polished black car was parked near the curb. When they approached, the door swung open and Mycroft himself appeared before their eyes in an impeccable suit and…. with an umbrella.

“Good evening, John.”

“Hello, Mycroft.” John was a little confused.

“What of the sniper?” Holmes senior asked, not wasting any more time.

“Without a doubt, it's the same person,” Sherlock answered briefly, and winced as if from toothache.


	4. Chapter 4

Very soon John found out Mycroft Holmes was a man to whom it was difficult to refuse anything. And this applied even to Sherlock, who, desperately resisting, still took up the cases offered by his brother. They had a strange complicated relationship. And the case for which they, as it seemed, had run around unsuccessfully for two days, was of interest not only to Lestrade, but also to Mycroft.

John was not a bit surprised to receive a new message from an unknown number with a time and place for a meeting. He also ignored two incoming calls. There was no place for any mysterious meeting in his plans. But when calls were heard from all sides - even from cafes and payphones - John was unable to ignore them anymore and he could not suppress his own curiosity. When a familiar voice calmly asked him to get into a black car he simply obeyed.

“Good afternoon. Is your name Anthea today?”

“If you like it, then yes.”

John smiled. To his surprise, instead of another abandoned warehouse the car stopped near a little restaurant with inconspicuous waiters and guards. Holmes senior was waiting for him at a table set for tea.

Impeccable suit, impeccable manners and the same umbrella leaning against the comfortable chair.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“Hello, John.”

“An unusual way to invite someone for a cup of tea, don't you think?”

“But very effective.” Mycroft smiled benignly and pushed a steaming cup of fragrant tea in Watson’s direction.

“So… When you say, you are concern about his wellbeing you actually are concerned?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Is it actually just a childish feud?”

“He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

“Yes…. No, God no. So what do you want to talk to me about?”

“I have something for you, and I wanted to present it in person. Unfortunately, I have not much time to enjoy the moment and your company.”

Mycroft Holmes, with one smooth movement, took out his organizer from his jacket pocket, opened it and handed John a plastic card.

John repeatedly ran his eyes over the lines printed on it and involuntarily straightened in his chair.

“I have no words… Thank you?”

“You have been given a lot of trust, my dear John. But I'm sure you'll not disappoint us.” Mycroft paused significantly. “And now, to my great regret, I have to leave you. But do try the tea and dessert. They are excellent here. Goodbye, John.”

Tea was indeed very good, and again he was kindly given a lift to Baker Street. Upstairs John was met by an angry Sherlock. He grabbed his shoulders and lightly shook him:

“You have met Mycroft. What has he done?”

“Nothing. We just had a small talk, that's all.” John frowned puzzled. He had stopped reporting his actions at seventeen, and that was to his parents. And now at the age of thirty-eight, he was damned if he was going to start doing that again.

“Did he touch you?”

“What? No!” John was really confused now.

“Good.” Holmes immediately lost any interest in him, returning to some kind of experiment.

“I guess I can’t expect any explanation for that.” John briefly hesitated at the door. The Holmes’ brothers’ behaviour in his humble opinion defied any logical explanation, or at least, logical explanation available to ordinary people.

So he just sent a short text in the hope it would reach its recipient.

Thanks for tea. JW

Much to his surprise, John decided that he liked Mycroft. Unlike his younger brother, who was profoundly indifferent to any rules and social norms, the senior Holmes had a nice ability to seem ordinary. In addition, he was in every sense a prudent man, and now John could without any consequences not only bear gun, but even shoot in busy London streets. And he could only dream that Sherlock could possess the tact and foresight of Mycroft in any kind of measure.

Any attempt to start a conversation about his duties, the need for his nightly absences and his inability to be in Holmes' presence every spare moment was met with disinterest. It was annoying. And now, while watching the detective bent over some flasks, John tried to cope with his frustration. Realizing that he was not coping he went in his bedroom and with a quiet click shut the door behind him.

Sitting down heavily on the neatly made bed, he waited for several minutes to calm down. Frustration and helplessness forced him to hide his face in his hands. He realized that he could at any time return to his former rented apartment, could just get up, gather his belongings and leave. And he didn’t care about the money or how much had changed in his life since both Holmes’ brothers had appeared in his life.

The phone rang suddenly, unexpectedly. John involuntarily glanced at his watch. He did not want to move or to do anything, and he seriously thought about not picking it up at all. Strongly suspecting that the screen would display Bill's name, he still pulled the phone out of his pocket, frowned at the name and, with a sinking heart, accepted the call.

“Clara?” All of a sudden, his voice sounded hoarse.

“John…” There was a sudden silence at the other end. She didn’t even say hello.

“What’s happened?” John asked quietly, suspecting the worst. But he could pull himself together in instant.

Clara was in a hurry to speak as if afraid that Watson would not listen to her:

“Did Harry ring you?”

“Yes, but I couldn't pick up the call. There were no messages from her.”

“She just called me…. Her voice was so shaky….”

“What did she tell you?”

“That she needs to leave home for a couple of weeks. And now she is not answering at all…”

Saying goodbye to Clara, John immediately rang his sister. After eight rings all he got was her voicemail.

Then John, not paying any attention to Holmes’ displeased shouts, ran outside and jumped into the first cab. At first he hoped to find her at home heavily drunk. But she was absent. He did not notice anything unusual, except her sports bag was missing. All the disarray in her rooms could indicate a chaotic hasty packing and departure but then maybe not.

Going around all the nearby pubs with Harry's photograph also didn’t give any results. She wasn’t with any friends or acquaintances. All this time he simply ignored all Sherlock’s messages, which demanded his immediate presence. He had neither the strength nor desire to explain why he had no time for the detective right now.

The night air chilled his cheeks, it climbed under his unbuttoned jacket and gently but firmly blew the warmth from under his beige sweater. John hated this sweater, but dressed in it regularly and could not bring himself to ruin it so he could throw it away and forget it. It was a gift, a gift from Harry on his return. It was presented with a silly joking tone and the assumption that after the scorching sun of Afghanistan he would be cold in the damp of London. And it was indeed freezing, and he did not think he would ever miss the feeling of gritty sand between his teeth, but he did anyway. And now it was easier for him to think of knitted clothes than of what he would have to pass through if his fears were true.

Finally he forced himself to stop and look around. John ran his hands with force down his face and turned; he didn’t even notice that all this time he had been walking in the wrong direction. Torn between his desire to take a cab and get to Lestrade as quickly as possible or go on foot and delay the moment when he would have to fill out the standard unremarkable form, John chose the latter. He needed all the time he could get to pull himself together.

He had described the situation and the actions he had taken briefly on the phone, so Lestrade was already waiting for him and took him by the elbow to escort him to a chair, his warm brown eyes full of sympathy.

“How are you?”

John had no answer to this question.

“Sorry, John, this is standard procedure. I can take the official statement from you in a day or so. But I'll try to help through unofficial channels.”

“Ok. And thank you, Greg.”

“What does Sherlock think about it?”

“Sherlock? What has he to do with this?”

The thought that suddenly came to his mind seemed painfully relevant and credible. John Watson had never before regarded himself as such an idiot.

“I thought… John, wait! What is it?”

John almost fell out of Lestrade’s office and froze in the middle of the hallway. He was suddenly pushed and he apologized automatically. A pretty girl gave him flirty once-over and hurried on her way.

He felt lightheaded; his temples were aching. He was saying something, it seemed, was even answering Lestrades's questions. Then he stopped to talk to someone - maybe Sally - but he was not sure.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yes… No…. Everything is ok.”

“I thought….” Greg paused. “Your lips are grey. Are you sure you are ok?”

“Yes, yes. Good… Thanks, I'll go.”

“Call a taxi? Or I can give you a lift.”

“No. Thank you again, Greg. And forget I asked for help with Harry. I know where she is. Sorry for any trouble.”

With a sense of relief, John wearily leaned back against the cold wall outside New Scotland Yard and slowly slid down. He knew that never, not under any circumstances would he want to relive this again.

John fished out his mobile from his pocket with trembling hands.

“John?” A female voice replied hesitantly after a few rings.

“Hello, Clara.”

“Any news?”

“Nope - nothing new. But I called in a few favours, so we should soon know about her location at least.”

He saw no point in telling her what he had guessed. He did not want to see her either. John did not blame Harry's ex wife for his sister's alcoholism, much less her disappearance, but the treacherous thoughts came to his mind from time to time. Maybe he just wanted to blame someone besides himself. And now he needed time to think.

His sister's flat greeted him with the same mess and scattered things. John turned on the light in every room and now was standing aimlessly in the hallway looking at a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

No matter what was happening with him, he had promised himself he would never look for escape in liquor. But now his hands were shaking not with his regular tremor but rather mild hysteria. The desire to get drunk was so overwhelming and frightening it made him shiver. John ran to the bathroom and put his head under the cold water. A freezing shower helped to distract him and get his thoughts in order.

After tidying up the bedroom and changing the bed sheets, he threw himself on the bed. If his guess was correct, and he was sure it was, there would be no need for any statement from him. And it didn’t matter that right now he was messing up the evidence at a possible crime scene.

Burying his face in a pillow that smelled of lavender, John just lay there and listened to the darkness until he fell into a deep sleep without dreams.

Waking suddenly, he breathed in a strange smell, bitter and fresh, the intoxicating smell of another male which forced him to alertness. Too close for his comfort. But he was woken not by it, but because of another person's eyes on him. He felt its weight on his lips, his forehead, eyelids, nose, temples. Then came persistent fingers which traced the path of that gaze.

“Sherlock….” Of course, it could only be Holmes. “Sherlock! What do you think you are doing?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

The last thing John expected was to be woken up in the middle of the night by someone else's insistent gaze. If it had been someone else and not Holmes, he might even believe that the person was somewhat concerned for him, but that didn’t meet with the detective’s usual behaviour.

“If you don't take your hands off me, I'll hit you,” he snapped, turning away from the hot breath fanning his face. A painful bite to his neck caused him to roll abruptly off the edge of the bed. He fell to the floor, hitting his knees and elbows.

“What the fuck?”

Holmes returned to staring at him in the dark; John felt that evaluating sight on him again.

“You didn’t come back,” the detective explained, reluctantly. “And you turned your phone off.”

“Did it even occur to you that I didn't want to? That I wanted to be alone? Or that I didn't want to see you?”

John rolled his bare shoulders. His clothes were lying somewhere near Holmes on the floor, and he was torn between his desire to dress and a reluctance to go any closer to the detective. The absence of any clothes except his underwear was not normally a problem for him - in the army, one quickly learned to forget about any modesty with everyone around flashing bare asses - but just at that very moment, he saw it as an unfortunate tactical disadvantage. It was hard to look convincing when you were standing in only your boxer shorts.

“You look too skinny.”

“No kidding.”

“Your usual wardrobe choice hides it rather well…”

“Stop it! I don't care what you think of my choice in clothes. Do you know what I’m really interested in?”

Suddenly John felt reassured. He slowly approached the bed and fumbled for the cord of the bedside lamp; shutting his eyes, he slowly pulled it. Blinking from the dim light, John moved closer and began examine Sherlock's face. Now John could distinctly smell a faint spicy urban scent permeating the detective’s hair and clothes.

All this time Holmes clearly wanted him to come to a certain conclusion on his own without any help and hints. It took a frustratingly long time to find the right answer. He was slow but he got there in the end.

The detective's breathing even did not even speed up, staying the same, steady and strong. John's heart, on the other hand, was ready to jump out if his chest with all the adrenaline throbbing.

“You are not a functioning sociopath, you are narcissistic egoist. I can only guess why you do it. Most likely, you are just bored. But I don't care. I just can't understand why? Why all the trouble?”

“I… If you don't see the obvious, I won't enlighten you.”

“And if you want us to get somewhere in this conversation, you’d better explain.” John began to lose patience. “Where’s my sister? And more precisely what have you done to her?”

“She is alive and well. Your sister has started a course of treatment for alcoholism in a private clinic under a false name.”

“Without her consent, of course?” he muttered.

“Does it matter?” Holmes looked at him challengingly.

“Probably not.” John laughed grimly.

Deep inside, he had known that sooner or later something like this might happen. After meeting Mycroft Holmes for the first time, he had had a vague suspicion, but over time it had become clearer that nothing would stop the Holmes' brothers. He had had an intuition, but he had always thought too well of people to suspect the worst. Especially about the person for whom he had shot a man. He should have known better. He himself had witnessed more than once the amazing acting ability of the detective. If necessary he was able to portray apparently sincere tears or smiles.

Also, deep inside he was grateful to the Holmes’, both of them. And if they could manage to achieve what neither he nor his family had been able to, John would forgive such brusque interference in their private lives. Not that he would tell Sherlock that now, but maybe someday. He was still very angry.

“This is nonsense… You don't need me, you just need a live person to experiment on,” he summed up.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you are … idiot.

After a long silence, Holmes began to dart around the room in his usual impatient manner. And John wasn’t sure what to make of that. After the confirmation of his guess, it was no longer enough for him to know that Harry was alive and well. But he did not dare to hope for more, especially after his outburst.

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

“Where?” John did not budge.

“To visit your sister, of course. You want that, right?”

“Yes…. So… You'll just going to take me to her, after what I’ve just said?” asked John, with some suspicion.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Holmes picked John's jeans from the floor and threw them in his direction.

“And you are not bothered that it’s now…” John checked the clock, “four in the morning?”

“No, and it shouldn't bother you either.”

John was not even surprised to see the familiar black car. Anthea wasn't there, but given the early hour he shouldn’t really have been surprised. So now only Holmes' presence was there to entertain him.

“So?” John finally decided to break the silence. “Why?”

There was more silence.

“Ok, you don't want to talk. But I'm not that stupid.”

“You are not stupid, just unobservant.”

That was the first comment even close to compliment that he had heard from Holmes.

“And it didn't even occur to someone as clever as you to simply ask me. Because if you want my help with Sebastian Moran you should just bloody ask!”

His outburst led him nowhere, as again Holmes chose to remain silent.

John had only read about this kind of private clinic. Fenced guarded areas, well-trained staff and the best doctors. He would never have been able to afford this level of service even with his savings and with the money he received from Holmes.

They were obviously being waited for. On reception, they were met by a man with tired face who gave them a key card.

Behind the door with the relevant number was a spacious living room with a TV and comfortable sofa. There were more doors leading, as he guessed, to a bedroom and bathroom. Everything looked expensive and comfortable. John opened the bedroom door and stepped in.

He did not turn on the light, just felt his way to the bad in the darkness and sat on the edge.

“Harry…. Harry, wake up,” he gently shook his sister's shoulder.

“John…” Harry's voice was a little sleepy and oh so dear.

John Watson swept his sister into his arms. Burying his nose in the tangle of blond hair and smelling unfamiliar shampoo, he tried to force himself to believe that what had happened was not a dream.

“How are you?”

“Good,” she replied hesitantly.

They just looked at each other. They had never needed words to understand what was going in each other’s minds. And even now all they needed were a slight nod and barely noticeable movement of the eyes.

“Do this, if not for me or Clara, then for yourself,” whispered John and forced himself to release his sister from his own tight grip.

“Ok.”

He saw her frightened glance in the direction of Sherlock, standing in the doorway, then in the corner of the room, where John strongly suspected there was a security camera installed. Even in the scant light from the barred window he saw everything he was supposed to see.

John stood up and walked out. Only once in the corridor and making sure the door was locked, did he allow himself to look at Holmes. The detective looked paler than usual. Gray eyes with dilated pupils followed his every move, so John was sure that he would dodge if he wanted.

He didn’t put all the anger he felt in his blows. He never hit with full force if it was not necessary. Holmes only once allowed his fist to reach the desired goal, and if John had any doubts of his fighting abilities, they were quickly dispelled. Holmes could clearly hold his own.

When they were separated by hospital staff, he saw, not without satisfaction, the split lip and huge bruise spreading on Sherlock's cheekbone. Despite his bleeding knuckles that would need bandaging, he couldn’t help feeling it was worth it. And when John was led away he could not stop turning around and looking at the frozen figure in the damaged expensive suit.

++**++

“You did the right thing deciding to contact me. I owe you some explanations.”

By now, John had realised that the younger Holmes was not the only brother who had a peculiar sense of humour, so he was not even surprised to be having a meeting with Mycroft in the familiar abandoned warehouse. The table laid for tea was a pleasant exception.

“I suppose Sherlock is being difficult and not sharing his motives with you. He is always like that.”

“But, Mycroft, why? I don't see any logic. Why was it necessary to play such a game with me? Why go to all the trouble of kidnapping Harry; setting up the clinic? Ok, why have go to the trouble of paying me? Living with me?”

“You can already see that Sherlock can't always take care of himself. Who knows how much supervision he needs? You have surprised him. Imagine how rare it can be. I can even see what might attract him. As you equally have the potential to be his undoing… or salvation.”

“You’re implying…. No, it can't be. This is ridiculous.”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“Well, yes. Any relationship – friendship even - built on deception and mistrust can't be healthy.

“… Friendship you say….” Mycroft put his umbrella aside and propped his elbows on the table. “Probably, at the start, he thought that you would be just like all the others before you. But now he has come to like you. And Sherlock as a rule doesn't like people.”

They were quiet for a long time until the soft voice of Mycroft Holmes broke the silence again.

“You must understand one thing. For Sherlock, such behaviour is the only possible form of communication with the outside world. And what may seem to you absurd or even cruel -, Mycroft was caressing the handle of his favourite umbrella with a familiar gesture, “- is a simple expression of feelings on his part.”

“With all due respect to you, Mycroft, I think it's only half of the story.”

“I suppose the name of Moriarty means nothing to you?”

“You are quite correct.” John was prepared for a long conversation and poured himself more tea. But Sherlock was not the only Holmes who loved to astonish.

“All notorious crimes committed over the course of several years are associated with this name. And we are not speaking about those that have remained hidden from prying eyes and not become publicly known.”

“Criminal mastermind?”

“Indeed, my dear John. A man that you can turn to if legitimate means of solving a problem are no longer possible or convenient. And, unlike Moriarty, the name of Sebastian Moran is familiar to you.”

John shuddered involuntarily.

“Yes.”

“And you have had the dubious pleasure of crossing his path. One of the most dangerous man in England, and there is reason to believe that he is closely linked to Moriarty.”

“Wait a minute. You want me to believe that this man, Moriarty, has never made a mistake?”

“Alas.”

“Mycroft, can I ask not very tactful question?” Receiving an affirmative nod, John continued, “Do you…are you telling me that with all your recourses you have never tried to stop him?

Holmes sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“You are only partly right, my dear John. Until Moriarty crosses certain limits, he is untouchable. And Sherlock is rarely bored now, thanks to Moriaty, which I very much appreciate. And you will understand what I mean…sooner or later.”

“That is… That is questionable and cruel.”

“Consider it a necessary evil. If not him, then there will be someone else on his place. But I must admit this man is a genius.”

“So why stop him now? After all these years?”

John had long since left his tea to turn cold. Now he could not bring himself to take even a sip. He had no doubt that there would be some more unpleasant news and was not disappointed.

“And now he has crossed the line…. I understand that we have given you no choice in the matter, but my gratitude would know no end, if you would be willing to help us. And when I say we, I mean not only myself and Sherlock…” Mycroft paused significantly.

“My brother was hoping that he could save you from being distracted by your sister, so your attention will be on him and him alone. You have to forgive us for such offhand interference in your life, but if we had another opportunity, without any doubt we would use it.”

A meeting with Mycroft was enlightening in every sense. John did not remember tasting his tea or climbing into the black car; he remembered only the pleasant face of Holmes senior, while he gave him general details of the upcoming events.

The stairs at 221B Baker Street seemed endless. And he was sure that, on the other side of the door, the world's only consulting detective would be waiting for him in his usual position on the couch. And Sherlock would know about his conversation with Mycroft as soon as he stepped into the room. The one undeniable plus to that was this: it would save him time on explanations.

Of course, he was right.

“Was your conversation entertaining?”

“I would say very instructive.” John sat in his favourite chair. The slight tingling in his leg was an indicator of future pain. He was dying for a cup of tea, but he had no strength to get up and make one. All the remaining energy he had, he had spent on getting back.

“You can't leave,” Holmes stated.

“And have I ever had a choice?” He had no strength even to be sarcastic, so the question came out weak and forced.

“No.”

John dropped his face in his hands and went still. It was nice to see nothing while covered from the rest of the world with the heat of his hands in white hospital bandages. Maybe he had allowed himself to be manipulated, but he had had no option. From the very start he had had no other options.

“Forget what Mycroft told you, it has nothing to do with him.” John heard Holmes get up and begin to pace nervously around the room, then heard the steps stopping in front of his chair.

“Why?” John finally forced himself to take his hands from his face and look at Holmes. There was hidden surprise mixed with hope in the grey eyes.

“I like having you in my life.” It sounded like a declaration. And maybe for Holmes it was.

“You know what?” John whispered, not even trying to shake the grip of the detective’s insistent hands off his shoulders. “Now you will never know how it might have been if I had made a choice … How it could be.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy, my dears)))

The realisation that people read his blog, left comments and instigated debates came very suddenly for John. When he had started describing in his entries the solved crimes which he had witnessed and had a chance to participate in solving, he really did not expect any response. There were only seven entries, all of which were in some way dedicated to the work of the world's only consulting detective. John just shared his observations and conclusions, although he could not afford to share even a half of what he really saw and heard.

“Who would have thought,” he muttered.

John looked up from the screen of his laptop and listened to the usual quiet of their home. He could hear Mrs. Hudson was busy cooking downstairs. And judging from the characteristic sounds of clattering dishes, in about thirty minutes he would be invited for a cup of tea with freshly baked cupcakes.

He stretched and looked out of the window. In the window of the opposite house, the woman had always exhibited a large pot with a plant - he did not know its name - but every time he wondered, why she did it. Her recent tenants had moved out a week ago, she had not had new ones, and the old lady had to put and remove the plant from the sill herself.

Next to the pot, he often saw a saucer with milk. Sometimes two cats were next to the treat, gently pushing at each other and usually meowing loudly, demanding more.

Now the pot was in its usual place, as was an empty saucer. No cats though. John sighed sadly for no reason. He had always loved animals, especially dogs. But with his way of life it was just not possible for him to have a puppy, although he always wanted a bulldog. In addition, he strongly suspected that any living creature unlucky enough to be his pet would immediately became an object of Holmes' next experiment. Or even a series of experiments. And John did not know what was worse.

Every damn time he started thinking about the detective, he could not stop. John was endlessly annoyed with himself that even alone in his head he was still thinking about Sherlock Holmes, as if every other part of his life hadn’t already been occupied by this man.

After his memorable conversation with Mycroft and the following confrontation with Sherlock, when he grabbed him and didn’t seem to want to let go, the detective didn’t attempt to take him to any case for several days. He just limited his requests to demands for tea and shopping for milk and some food. And every time John just stood quietly, put aside what he was doing and did what he was asked. The Army had taught him to follow orders without questions and now it was easier to focus on clear guidelines and uncomplicated actions. 

Those evenings and nights that he spent with Bill, it appeared possible to have some change in his routine, but it did not happen often enough to distract him from his gloomy thoughts. John, with frightening clarity, realized something else besides the fact that half of Scotland Yard read his blog. The obnoxious detective inexplicably managed to make his life diverse and exciting. It frightened, alarmed and aroused in John a forgotten feeling of delight.

For several days, he tried to avoid Holmes, for the most part by simply sitting in his room. When it became unbearable to be within four walls, John went out to roam the city.

He had a lot to think about while sitting on a park bench and looking at passers-by. No matter what happened now, he knew one thing for sure – he was firmly hooked. Whatever the reason that he was needed by both Holmes brothers, from the moment Harry was moved into that expensive private clinic, he had had no chance to refuse them.

Holmes was absent all morning, so he had the opportunity to view in blessed silence all his new messages without being distracted by the persistent gaze of penetrating eyes.

A quiet rustle distracted him from his sad thoughts. Only a few people among his friends had the ability to get close enough to him and unnoticed until the very last moment.

“Is that you, Sherlock?”

“I have to disappoint you, John.”

John spun around at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Mycroft. I…. I wasn't expecting your visit.”

“I expected to find you alone, John.”

John closed his laptop with a sigh and went to the kitchen.

“Tea?”

“Black. Without sugar.”

Having dealt with the pleasantries, they sat apposite each other with steaming cups.

“What can I help you with?”

Mycroft silently handed him the folder from his briefcase for review and returned to his tea. John at first just flipped through the attached documents, then read each paper more carefully.

“I didn't know I had such an impressive resume. And exactly what position will I be applying for at this clinic?”

“Part-time doctor. In about two days, you will be invited for an interview. I don't think that with your skills and um… pleasant manners there will be any difficulty in getting this job. Your main goal will be that man in the photo. He isn’t the patient; it’s his mother, who he regularly accompanies. A laudable son's concern, I must say. Your task is to establish contact with him and gain his trust if possible.

John nodded Holmes’ words. It was nothing new to him so he already began to plan the future operation.

“Who is this man?”

“He is the ‘Mechanic’ in Moran's team. Your shifts at Mr. Murray’s will be made up so as to avoid arousing suspicion, but your main role is to draw as much of this man’s attention as possible. The rest is a matter of time. But as soon as you are contacted, you will know what to do, John.”

“You understand Sherlock won't be happy about this.”

“I'm afraid that can't be avoided. And he'll just have to cope.”

“Purely hypothetically… When this is over and my help won't be needed anymore…or otherwise, sooner or later he will be bored…of this arrangement. Then can I leave?” John suddenly asked. He was really interested.

“If it ever happens, you are free to do as you want. But until that happens you can't leave on your own.”

“What do you mean if?” John looked around uneasily as if expecting the younger of the Holmes brothers to appear before them at any moment. “You.. Are you threatening me?”

“No. Hopefully that will never happen. Sherlock is so very angry with me for my intervention. Honestly, he is behaving like a child.”

“Good. Excellent. Anything else?”

“No. You are coping well, my dear John. Now I need to leave. Thanks for the tea and your cooperation. Don't bother to send my regards to Sherlock; he will know that I met you. But pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Hudson. I think in 8 minutes you will be invited for tea with cupcakes.”

“Good-bye, Mycroft. Glad to be of help.”

“No-no, don't see me out,” Holmes stopped his attempt to get up with a wave of his hand.

After Mycroft's departure, John spent some time carefully studying the documents left for him, then firmly stood and hurried to his room where he hid the folder in a box with his military uniform.

It was about ten minutes in the end when Mrs. Hudson called him for tea. The smell of fresh baking tickled his nostrils and teased his appetite, so of course, John could not resist the invitation. And he also had a rare opportunity to ask the landlady about Sherlock while he was not there.

Praising her really wonderful cupcakes, John tried as smoothly as possible to steer the conversation to what he wanted to know.

“A few years back my husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. And dear Sherlock was able to help me.”

“Sorry, he stopped your husband being executed?”

“Oh no, he ensured it. That is why I was glad to help when he needed a place.”

To this, John had nothing to say, it seemed the landlady didn’t know a lot about Holmes, so they turned to a discussion of the latest TV show.

**+++**

The business part of London had never been particularly interesting to John. Not that he didn’t like it. But tall buildings with glass reflecting the clouds and people in business suits hurrying somewhere always made him sad.

Returning home, with his hands full of groceries and not waiting for any help from Holmes, John didn’t expect to be needed to accompany the detective. And he really did not expect this day to end up full of discoveries and revelations.

John had repeatedly witnessed how Holmes was able to blend in the crowd or stand out depending on what was most convenient at that moment. But now, he just looked thoughtful, which meant that the case had the potential to be really interesting. John patted his pockets, he was sure he had brought a small notebook and pen with him.

“You won't need them.”

“What?.. Oh, forget it.” This time it seemed he would have to rely on his own memory. Which he did not complain about, but he did rather prefer to have the opportunity to record the thoughts that came to mind. And he could only guess why Holmes paid any attention to his note-taking.

Once they entered the spacious bright foyer, John tried to keep up with Holmes. He was not afraid of getting lost or doing something equally stupid in this situation; he was just uncomfortable.

They were promptly led along a corridor past the grey featureless walls, past the greedy eyes full of interest, past the quiet whispers only interrupted by occasional phone calls. They were, of course, being waited for.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sebastian.”

Holmes exchanged a firm handshake with a tall dark-haired man who gave him a wide toothy smile.

“Hello, buddy. How many years has it been? 8 years since I last clapped my eyes on you.”

He saw the strange handshake and exchange of glances. In addition, Sherlock did not bother taking off his gloves. John watched them, puzzled, until he was introduced by Holmes.

“This is my friend John Watson.”

“Friend?” Sebastian, in John's opinion, looked quite naturally surprised.

“Colleague.”

He did not know why he corrected Sherlock. Beside the fact that he really was tired of correcting people’s assumptions that they were dating, he did not consider them to be friends. They could hardly be called even colleagues. But, of course, it was easier to think about their strange relationship as a partnership no matter how tenuous the terms of said partnership were.

“Right.”

He immediately did not like Sebastian. And John did not like the way he looked him up and down, holding his hand for longer than normal. To some extent, this banker and Holmes deserved each other, but he had already got used to the detective. And people like Sebastian Wilkes were too far removed from the usual circle of people he chose to spend his time with. Add to this also Holmes’ strange reaction to him, and John knew he did not want to spend more time in the company of this man than was necessary.

For the first time since his acquaintance with Holmes, John had a chance to find out what it was like to know Sherlock back into his youth and at university. Therefore, he listened to Sebastian’s recollections with genuine interest.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Sherlock did not look happy. Now he was able to read his behaviour a little better, it was clear that Holmes was also uncomfortable. This puzzled John. He already regretted correcting the detective, but John really didn’t believe that they could be called friends.

“I'm glad you could make it over. We had a break in.”

Now Sherlock was in his element. And John had just to follow his lead, doing his best to keep up with the pace.

“There’s a hole in our security. Find it out, and we will pay you. Five figures.”

Sebastian, with a practiced gesture, drew a pre-prepared cheque from his coat pocket.

“Tell me how they got in. There’s a bigger one on the way.” He gestured at the cheque.

“I don't need an incentive, Sebastian.”

“He is kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him?” John was not going to miss the opportunity not only to earn some money but also to empty the pockets of Holmes’ former classmate.

Intuition was telling him that the case would be far more interesting than it might seem at first sight. Even to him, it was clear as day that the entry had not been organized to steal something. Someone wanted to leave a message. And John had no doubt that Sherlock would soon tell him who the message had been left for, if he correctly understood the examinations currently being carried out by the detective - and he was sure he did understand correctly.

Also he knew exactly why Holmes had lied to his former classmate about his trips and flights. As John suspected, it was in order to annoy, and he was right. On all counts. Sitting in the cab with Sherlock, John was already trying to figure what he would say to Bill if he called him unexpectedly. He really did not want to sacrifice a few hours of Bill's shift for this case or any case at all.

Van Coon, the man that Holmes had identified by logical deductions as the one to whom the message was addressed, as expected was not at home. It started to rain. John raised the collar of his jacket and put his hands in his pockets.

“What will we do now?”

John waited for Sherlock to surprise him again. And the detective did not disappoint him. Once they entered the apartment and found the owner to be dead, the only thing left for them to do was to call the police and wait.

Dimmock, in John's opinion, was a very promising officer. He hadn’t worked with him before. But they could not be lucky enough to work only with Lestrade and his team all the time. And John was very pleased with the fact that Sherlock Holmes’ fame had preceded him, so they were not simply kicked out of the crime scene as they should have been following the standard procedure.

John knew why Greg did not answer Sherlock's messages and calls. While lying in hospital after a bullet wound, he had better things to do then answering persistent messages from the displeased detective. He was just going to visit the DI if it was possible to find couple of hours in the evening, which he now strongly doubted. Since the discovery of the murdered banker, their new case was removed from the category of perspective and placed in the category of 'need to write about it in the blog" in John's mind. So now all his days until solving this case were marked as completely unpredictable.

When he sent a message to Greg, John did not expect to get an immediate answer. Well, at least it meant one thing for sure – he was still in Lestrade's good books, while Holmes was ignored.

Good. U have new case?

Perspective one. Pity u aren't here. JW

I'm flattered. But have no regrets. Miss only ur company.

John reread the message for several times doubting that he understood it correctly. The next one also puzzled him.

Good luck with Sherlock.

? JW

Newbie – pretty smart. Let's see how they'll get along.

New Inspector? JW

Dimmock. Bet they will get along.

As much as he could, John tried to hide the smile when the young Inspector politely but firmly put Holmes in his place. And he could not help but play along when Sherlock gave him a questioning look. It was enough just to agree that what happened was a suicide to give a reason for the detective to share his observation and theory of what had occurred there. John had not a slightest doubt that Holmes was right. As always.

The young Inspector was impressed.

“John!” He had no time to watch Dimmock, as Sherlock has already put on his coat and was heading to the exit.

He caught Holmes near the elevator. It was coming up too slowly for the detective's taste, so he went to the door leading to the stairs.

“Where are we going now?”

“We need to process some things and then you can go to visit Lestrade.” Sherlock was pulling gloves and did not look at him.

“Ok…. How did you know it was Greg?”

“You looked far too pleased while typing painfully slowly on your phone. By the way, give it to me.”

“But it could be anyone.”

“Most often you receive messages from four people. Me, Mycroft,” - while saying his brother's name Sherlock winced involuntarily. “Lestrade and Murray. And only to Lestrade's messages do you answer nodding your head in approval. And sometimes smiling.”

John had nothing to say to that, he hadn’t notice this about himself and well, he had no reason to do so. Holmes' observation was not unusual. He even, to some extent, had grown accustomed to it during those two months of living and working together. He handed his phone to the detective, belatedly wondering why he had been asked to do that.

“I also think we'll find common grounds with Dimmock. If he'll have enough brains to accept our help.”

After another poor communication with Sebastian Wilkes, John realized two things. He should not have taken money from the banker. And the second – if the opportunity turned up, he would gladly hit the smug bastard. To have to put up with this man more than once in one day was simply not on. Of course, he- and the bank's managers were more than happy with the police’s conclusion of suicide. That way, nothing was hanging over their reputation.

“All bankers serve to be heartless bastards,” John said wearily, to which Sherlock only pursed his lips with displeasure. He credited that as agreement.

“Looks like I was wrong about Dimmock. The idiot has already happily reported to his superiors that it was simply suicide. The boss is happy, case is closed.” Sherlock hissed the last words bitterly.

“I'm going to Tesco, then to Lestrade.”

“You can tell him that I would prefer he was in charge here.”

John just chuckled in response.

Once on the street, Holmes popped into the first cab, so John decided to save money and went to the nearest Underground station. Having joined the ranks of hurrying people, for a moment he felt lost and a little bit happy. Even to himself, he couldn’t explain why, while breathing in the stuffy air of the Underground and jumping at sudden noises, he could not calm down and prevent his heart from hammering in anticipation. The new case promised to be interesting, even exciting. And if it would help to distract Holmes from the constant control over him, all the better.

In Tesco he struggled with the choice of what to take, adding a crossword book to the fruits and chocolate. If Greg's injury even slightly resembled his own rehabilitation state then John was pretty sure that the DI was dying of boredom in his hospital room.

The doctor in him tried to ignore the usual hustle and noise at the hospital. He hesitated for some long moments near the elevator but then finally pushed the button. White robes. White sterile rooms. White bandages. And the smell of medications lingering even when the gray walls of the hospital were out of the sight. John held his breath and strode inside.

Near the right door, a guard was sitting and reading the newspaper. He vigilantly checked his ID and only then allowed him to enter.

“Wow,” - John whistled. “I didn't know that inspectors these days…”

“Don't say anything!” cried Greg. “Just don't. I honestly have no idea how this happened. My cover wouldn’t include a private room or a guard near the door.”

John hid the smile. He knew exactly who exactly was behind all this.

“Sherlock asked to pass on his regards and wish you a speedy recovery… Of course, in the usual Sherlock style.”

++**++

John hated hospitals. He did not know if he could work in one if needed. It was rather ironic that in the dark back room of some club he felt more assured and comfortable than in a high-tech fully equipped sterile operating room. Therefore, the fact that he was going for a job interview in a clinic pleased him to no end.

To his surprise, the interview with his future boss, Sarah Sawyer, ended not only with his recruitment but also with the promise of a pleasant acquaintance. John didn’t even bother to pay any attention to the displeased Sherlock.

“Where have you been?”

“I've applied for a job at the surgery.”

“How was it?”

“Great. She‘s great.”

“Who?”

“Um - the job.”

“While you were spending time on Mycroft's request, we got new data. Have a look.”

John scanned over the screen. His prescience hadn’t deceived him, the case promised to be really exciting.

“Doors closed. Windows closed from the inside just the same as with Van Coon.”

“God! You think….”

“He's killed another one.”

“And what will we do next?”

“Let's visit our new inspector.”

John pulled his jacket back on and ran down the stairs following Sherlock

They had only formally to convince Dimmock that the two murders were connected. He was a bright officer and he understood. Besides, the young Inspector had a very important trait that John appreciated – he was able to admit defeat and accept help, forgetting about his pride.

After five minutes with them in the apartment where the body were found, the young DI was given a chance not only to be rehabilitated in the eyes of his superiors, but to allow the investigation to move on. John chose not to intervene in the conversation between Dimmock and Holmes, he believed they could talk without his input. However, they really needed to find something to connect these absolutely different people.

When their trail finally led them to a girl named Soo Lin Yao and John saw the writings on the wall, everything finally fell into place. He really did not think that their actions would have such dire consequences. Soo Lin was doomed from the moment Sherlock saw two shiny pitchers instead of one. As was John's first date in several months.

He did not know what he had been thinking about; a serious – even any - any relationship did not interest him. But a sudden vision of the coming evening and being greeted only by a dimly lit apartment and the company of a sulking detective had prompted him to invite Dr Sawyer to go out with him. And though he had clear instructions to just look around, blend and if possible not to stand out, John had not seen any danger in one promising date.

He should not have been surprised. And he should not have changed his plans to visit the circus instead of the cinema. Somewhere deep inside he knew from the start that everything would end up like this - with fights and kidnapping on his first date with Sarah.

Eventually, they solved the case, put Sebastian Wilkes in his place and in the case of Sarah, John got new friend. And due to Mycroft's foresight, John was safe from an ASBO. But something still could not bring him to put the case behind him. And of course John knew, could never forget, what it was.

On his way to Barts, John stopped by a café and only then armed with hot coffee went to see Molly in the morgue. She was pleasantly surprised by his visit. He could not help but note how she was looking behind him in the hope of seeing Holmes. John was genuinely sorry for her, but in this situation he could not help even if he wanted to.

“Molly, I have a personal favour to ask.”

“New hand for Sherlock?”

“What? No, God no. I'm here for Soo Lin Yao, the girl from the latest case involving the Chinese gang ‘Black Lotus’. I understand if there are no relatives to claim the body, she will be buried at public expense?”

“Yes, John, you are almost right.”

“She told... she told me was an orphan. And if her funeral won't be taken care of by her colleagues, I would like to do it myself. Can you do this?”

“Of course I'll put you in the form…. That's very noble of you, John.”

John did not think so. Perhaps if he’d acted differently he and Soo Lin would have both been dead or perhaps he would have managed to help her. But now he would never know.

“Thank you, Molly.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new friday - new chap)))

“Hello?” John stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do for the best: lead the indecisive girl standing outside the door up to Holmes or pick up his bag and hurry to the other side of town, where he was being waited for. And if not for the despair in the eyes of the young girl in front of him, John would have gone without any hesitation.

“Hell.. Hello. Can I see Sherlock Holmes?” The sloppily-dressed girl stubbornly raised her trembling chin as if definitely resolved. He had seen similar behaviours in people who came to Holmes in the hope of finding a solution to their problems many times before.

“I'll show you the way.” John kindly let her in and led her up the stairs. No matter how much he wanted to stay and hear her story, he indeed was needed in another place. And he was so very late already.

“Sherlock,” he called softly to the detective, who was leaning over some experiment on their kitchen table. Sherlock shook his head almost imperceptibly making it clear that he had heard him.

The phone in John's pocket vibrated persistently, pointing out that he should hurry up.

“I have to leave you.” John smiled kindly and finally whispered to the bewildered and slightly frightened girl on his way out, “I strongly advise you not to hold anything back, then you'll have a chance of interesting him in your case.”

Leaving the nervous client and bored detective alone with each other, John had no doubt that they would be able to communicate on their own, without his participation in the process. The unexpected call from Bill was a real rescue for John. If he’d had to be alone with Holmes at least a couple of hours more, he was not sure that he would have refrained from fighting. The constant carping, endless stings of experiments and continuous demands for him to be in Sherlock's presence all the time were playing hard on his nerves. A week without a case and he was ready to run away, anywhere, just to give himself a chance to breathe freely away from Holmes's attention.

John got off at the required station and went to the right address. Bill knew his passion for street fighting, so he always tried to give him shifts on interesting ones. His current assistant, Charlie, a rather intelligent guy who usually worked with Bill, was glad to see him as they were old buddies.

“Today we have some interesting guys, great that you were able to come.”

John, with a smile, followed his young assistant through the crowd and past security. He watched two rounds with interest until it was time to do the duties for which he was here in the first place. He had just finished applying bandages to an unlucky bloke who had smashed his head, when Charlie burst in, calling for him to watch the next round.

“The guy is really good although he doesn't look like the type. You'll like him.”

“You think so?” John had his doubts.

“I'm sure. He rarely participates, and you’ve only been coming here for a few months, so you won’t have seen him in action.

“Ok, let's look at your guy then.”

He heard the familiar roar of the crowd excited by sweat and blood. Exactly for just such moments he would keep coming back to abandoned warehouses, down in dark basements, risking being crushed by an uncontrollable crowd. Risking being caught in a police raid or in an underground riot. All for the sake of the heat from dozen tightly packed bodies, for the sake of excitement and adrenalin rushing through the veins. John would not have traded this for anything.

In his youth, desperately needing money, he had gone down to the ring several times but those days were long gone. From this part of his past, he had a couple of scars and two fused ribs. Now it was enough just to watch.

Down on the ground, fenced by simple boards, one of the fighters was already there. John appreciated the man’s physique and menacing appearance, but as rule all this did not matter against the agility, stamina and accuracy of the applied blows.

“This one?” yelled John in Charlie's ear, pointing to the guy in the makeshift ring.

“No. That’s Pat.” Bill's assistant shook his head and smiled slyly. The crowd exploded with shouts and whistles. John did not even realize at first what kind of reaction it was.

He looked around in confusion. This had never happened in his memory. Utter delight or confusion. 

“Here he is!” Charlie was in a hurry to make a bet.

“What are you betting on?”

“On which blow he will cut Pat down with!”

John leaned over the railing for a better view. They, as freelance doctors on such events, had one of the best observation points. The tall thin figure he would have recognized anywhere. In simple jeans, sneakers and bare-chested, Sherlock Holmes looked as appropriate here as in an expansive suit in some smartly furnished room. Painfully pale, wiry with subtle flourishes of scars on his back, chest and barely visible burns on his hands, this Sherlock caused John an almost tangible sense of unease, as if he had been caught peeping.

Holmes raised his hands in greeting and walked to the middle. He slowly looked around the jubilant crowd until he stopped on John’s astonished face as if he had specifically looked for him and was hoping to see him. After winking at him, Holmes returned to the standard ritual of greetings.

He had not expected to meet Sherlock in place like this. And, to be entirely honest, he had not expected to meet him today at all. John did not want much, just a couple hours for himself, without the constant presence of the world's only consulting detective and his vast intellect.

He liked living at Baker Street, he liked Mrs. Hudson, and although he was still paid for being a nanny for Holmes, John was not going to spend every minute of the day next to him. He had his own life and people who he wanted to spend time with.

John did not bet on Holmes, he was sure the detective would win and felt it was wrong to do so.

Looking at the way Holmes flew away from attacks was exciting. John unconsciously held his breath every time his opponent's fists were dangerously close to Sherlock, but they never reached their goal. After a series of lightning strikes, his opponent was defeated by the detective who triumphantly raised his bleeding arms in the air and did a victory lap.

“Poser,” John muttered under his breath, shaking his head in admiration. He looked at the broken skin of the detective’s knuckles and frowned. It was hard to believe that such an experienced fighter as Holmes had got so beaten up. And as usual, John needed only to wait for Sherlock to solving this little puzzle for him. Although, he already suspected the reason.

A dark curly head flashed among the crowd, soon appearing on the stairs leading to their little room. So he was right in the end.

“I understand that I can get first aid here?” Holmes pointedly looked around with an innocent expression. Charlie whistled enthusiastically.

“I'm your biggest fan! All the guys put bets only on you.”

Not paying any attention to him, Sherlock walked right up to the bewildered Watson and licked the broken skin of his knuckles.

“Is everything ok, John?... John?” Charlie sounded really concerned.

“Yes.”

“Then I won't bother you.” Charlie raised his eyebrows significantly, throwing an expressive glance at their rather compromising position.

“Haven’t you got a new case?” John hissed irritably, pulling peroxide from the shelf.

“Maybe.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I came to get my doctor.”

++**++

While living with Sherlock, John has made a number of significant findings. First, Sherlock has never chased money and would refuse even very rich clients if he did not find anything exciting in the investigation of their problems. And at the same time, he could be absent for days staying somewhere in the slums of London helping some suspicious character if the case gave him an opportunity to show off his skills. Secondly, the detective's mind could not tolerate boredom.

There were a number of other observations that helped John, one way or another, to understand the character of the man in whose company he spent almost all of his time, rarely having the opportunity to escape from the relentless surveillance bordering on obsession.

That is why he had no doubt that the case Greg wanted to meet him about might be interesting for the detective. Lestrade had invited him to the pub and was rather apologetic about the fact that they’d had to meet for a work-related matter. But the matter was really too important to ignore. He asked for John's help in a case of some missing children.

At the pub, John politely asked, “What will you have?”

“Only water, I’m driving.”

When they were seated, Greg with his water and John with a pint of his favourite beer, Lestrade briefly outlined the whole course of events and most key moments of the investigation. Watson listened attentively, making notes in his notebook. It was one thing to read dry lines of reports and statements, and quite another to be listening to the professional who was most concerned with the matter.

“Sherlock only has two low-intensity investigations at the moment. In my opinion, he has taken them from utter boredom. One case, however, is rather unusual - I'll call it "Identification" in my blog”, John told the DI, enthusiastically. “I can't promise anything, but I'll do everything in my power to convince Holmes to take this one.”

“I would be very grateful. Sherlock has already refused for some reason, but now I have hope. And all because of you, John.” Greg wearily tousled his short grey hair. “I don't like to think that I could have done something more for these children but never did.”

“You’re expecting too much from me,” John noted sadly. “I'm not sure he will listen to me. Especially if he’s refused once already.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Hmm?”

“You're not right in saying that he won't listen to you. I think you're the only person other than his brother and Mrs. Hudson that he treats differently from all others.”

“Um… I don't know, I don't know.”

There was something in Lestrade's words that alarmed John. Sherlock was not the easiest person to live and work with, and the fact that even after a minute examination you were not included in the category of "case", "dull" or "tedious nuance" could be the best compliment that one could receive from the detective. And now John saw the confirmation of his speculation from another person’s perspective. If Lestrade, the only person out of their mutual acquaintances who had known Holmes for a long time (apart from his older brother), said that, then there was something in his words.

Greg gave him a lift to Baker Street. After parking at the curb he pulled out a few folders and, with a sigh, gave them to John.

“Sorry, we met up for this purpose. If only our reasons for getting together weren't so grim. Ideally, I’d rather we didn’t meet for work reasons at all.”

Since the DI had been released from the hospital, the only happy occasion that John had had for meeting him had been the celebration for the said hospital discharge, all the other occasions had been, in one way or another, connected with work.

John opened the door with his key and lingered for a bit on the stairs. From Mrs. Hudson's apartment came the familiar sounds of a late night television show. The stairs creaked as usual under his feet as he slowly climbed upward, mentally preparing himself for a conversation with Sherlock.

The detective as usual had occupied the sofa and was busy staring at the ceiling. And when John appeared, he just gave him a quick once other and again returned to the contemplation of the ceiling.

“You met Lestrade. And you should not have drunk a third pint. After more than two you became distracted, although more pleasant. And I don't like the smell of beer,” Holmes muttered under his breath. “The DI wanted you to hand me some papers about a case… judging by the photos sticking out, about the missing blind children… Hmm…”

John came closer to better hear the detective's muttering. Sherlock threw another look at the folder in his hands and went back to grumbling, but now quite illegibly.

“You have nothing interesting on. Will you take this case?”

“I'll accept on one condition,” Holmes said quickly. John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. A bargaining detective could mean anything: from experiments in the bathroom to… he did not want even to continue to pursue this idea. The evening had turned out not to be very pleasant already so far.

“I think you'll take it nevertheless. At least, you won't be bored.”

“No, only on one condition.”

“And what is it?” sighed John and waved the pile of folders in front of the detective's face.

“I want to look at that scar on your shoulder – the bullet wound,” elaborated Holmes.

Oh, of course, the detective also knew about his other scars. Most likely, he had delved into his hospital records. Wanker.

“What?... And don't look at me like that. I just want to make sure that I heard you correctly”.

“To examine your scar – that’s my condition. Do you agree?”

John frowned. It was not in Holmes’ nature to ask for something. Most of the time, if he wanted something, he simply demanded not asked. Besides, he could claim it from him as an employer. In the end, John had agreed to be his assistant. And that this strange request was related to one of Holmes's experiments was not even questioned. Why would Holmes look at his scar if not for an experiment? Reassured by his conclusions, John had not further doubts.

“All right. Where do you want me?” John froze. His words sounded ambiguous – and not only to himself, he was sure. 

“Here. But if you want we can do it in your bedroom… I have an emmm... experiment going in my room... and I don't want you seeing it.”

“If it is somehow connected with what you are taking from Molly, I just don't want to know. Just don't….” After some thinking he decided to elaborate. “You said you don't like me smelling of beer. Are you are ok with that now?”

He had already got over the embarrassment and watched the chaotic activity of the strangely over-excited detective. Holmes initially fumbled with some papers, scattering them around. Then he ran to the kitchen, but quickly returned. Of course, he ignored his question.

“What are you waiting for? Let's go.”

John looked doubtfully at the enthusiastic detective. This idea was growing less attractive every passing minute. As if reading his mind, Sherlock just grinned at him.

Stepping into his bedroom, John first of all turned on the light. Then, after some thought, he pulled off his sweater and hung it neatly on a chair. His shirt followed it shortly after. Holmes waited patiently while he unbuttoned it without any comment.

There was something intimate in what was happening, though this was not the first time the detective had been in his room. Usually, he came to him at any time, regardless of John’s presence or absence, whether he was preparing for bed or getting dressed. He had even come in the middle of the night, demanding attention or assistance. But this time was different.

Not for the first time, he was under Holmes’ close observation. And every damn time, he felt awkward. He was not embarrassed; John was not ashamed of either his body or his scars, evidence of a turbulent life. But Sherlock's gaze was as palpable as touch.

Holmes got very close. Too close for John's comfort. He mumbled something barely audible. John only heard "through", "back" and maybe even "amazing", he was not sure. He could endure it as long as the detective did not touch him, therefore he immediately recoiled from an unexpected touch to his neck and whirled away. Holmes didn’t even look guilty.

“We didn’t agree to that,” John stated, slowly pronouncing each word for emphasis. “You can look but not touch.”

“Arghhh! Words, words!”

“I said no.”

“John…” Sherlock stilled, his eyes lit up strangely, and John decided to change his tactic urgently. The detective didn’t like being told no. Also he was not the only one able to bargain.

“I want to visit my sister. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

After some thinking John decided to clarify: “You will do that for me?”

“I want to touch you. Will you allow me?”

“Wash your hands for a start. God knows where they've been today.”

“Alright,” snorted Holmes.

John turned to face the wall and waited patiently for Holmes to return. He decided not to sit on the bed; it would be too uncomfortable for him if the two of them were sitting right next to each other… on the bed…. No, too much for him. So John decided just to suffer the other man’s presence standing up. When Sherlock returned and stood behind his back, he could feel his hot breath and body heat.

John shivered.

In the silence of the room only their breathing and the sounds of the street, coming from the half-open window, could be heard. Then even those sounds ceased; it seemed the only two of them were left in the whole world.

Sensitive fingers once again started with his neck, running down the prominent vertebrae, then slid up to the ugly scar of healed skin on his shoulder. John felt every light touch, even to the areas where his damaged skin was less sensitive.

John tensed. He felt no threat. He was just uncomfortable standing with his bare back to the man who, John knew now for sure, could in one movement break his neck. And he did not want to think of how they might look to someone else seeing them in this position.

“Relax.”

“Easer to say than to do,” hissed John.

“Recall for me Lestrade's words.”

“Well…a few years ago, three blind teens aged 13 to 14 were kidnapped. Except for the fourth one – Brian Bower. He is deaf-mute. All the kids disappeared in the middle or near the city centre.” John started to calm down. “The last place they all were seen was a special school for children with similar disabilities. Supposedly they were kidnapped down the road from the school towards the bus stop. No witnesses, no leads. No requests for money – so no clues to find the kidnappers. Their bodies have not been found. That could mean that either they are still alive, which is unlikely, or that the bodies were very carefully disposed of, which is much more likely…. There was a theory about a serial killer. Judging by the numerous clippings of articles that Greg gave to me, this supposed killer was even given a nickname - Spider. Rather questionable, but typical newspaper stuff. Police were working on several trails, one of which was about elite clubs with er... specific services.”

“For your comfort, let's call them just clubs.”

“Er … if you say so.” John frowned. “But whatever we call them, the meaning will stay one and the same. The police checked this lead with no result. I didn't quite understand how they got this clue, Lestrade's explanation was rather confusing. Then the kidnappings suddenly stopped and now, six months later, a new one.”

“I remember this case.” Sherlock suddenly sighed loudly and quickly added. “Tomorrow after our visit to your sister we're going to question the parents of the last victim.”

John nodded, glad that he would have a chance to visit Harry in the clinic. If he hadn’t been distracted by the plans for tomorrow, he would have realized what had just happened more quickly. At least he had a justification for his slow reaction.

“What the fuck?... You… You licked me!” John knew he looked silly with his mouth open but he couldn’t help it.

“I wanted to do that and I did,” said Sherlock, already texting somebody on his phone as if nothing had happened. “Thank you, John. You've been most helpful.”

Although he was curious to know in what way exactly he had been so helpful, John decided not to elaborate, closing the door with relief after the detective's departure. Then, while lying in bed, he spent a long time stroking the place at the base of his neck where the feel of a hot tongue still lingered.

++**++

Waking up before dawn from a nightmare, the details of which he did not want to remember, but was unlikely to ever be able to forget, John lay still with his eyes wide open, listening to the silence. He couldn’t tell if he was alone in the house. He knew that Mrs. Hudson was probably downstairs. She would hardly have gone somewhere at five in the morning. With Holmes it was harder to tell - the detective might be gone anytime at night - but John had lain awake for a long time during the night, so he would have heard the sound of a slamming door.

Going into the kitchen, the first thing John always did was to turn the kettle on. Without his morning dose of tea, he simply didn’t feel like a decent human being. Feeling a persistent gaze on him, he didn’t look around.

“Breakfast?” Even knowing the answer, John still felt obliged to ask all the same.

“Only tea.”

John, still feeling wrecked from his restless sleep, was slowly moving around the kitchen, making tea and toast with jam.

“We need milk. And eggs.” Looking at the meagre contents of their fridge, he was glad that he didn’t come across something that had no place on the shelves – of normal people, anyway, in which category they were, of course, not included.

“The car will be here in 30 minutes,” said Sherlock, his head bent over his tea.

“Good.” John returned his attention to his plate of toast, pretending not to notice the snatching hand of the detective, who was going to have tea only.

Thirty minutes passed quickly. Only as he sat on the back seat of yet another black unmarked car did he realize how nervous he had felt all morning. And he had every reason to worry. He knew all too well that any kind of treatment could only be successful if a patient wished to be cured. And in the case of his own sister, John was not certain of anything.

During the second visit to the clinic, he had been asked not to come again, limiting all his communication with Harry by phone. Mycroft explained that from then on he would have to get special permission, but he just saw this as a new form of manipulation that he wouldn’t be able to prove.

Digging his fingers through Harry’s soft blond hair, he could hardly believe that what was happening to them was real. After his arrival, he had met her doctor and discussed her progress. Not fearing any regression, he asked to be taken to his sister.

“Everything will be just fine.” John frowned at his own tone and decided to be honest, not really knowing to what he was referring in fact. “Sooner or later it will end, and you'll be able to return.”

“How is she?” The unexpected question made him wince. It pushed unwanted feelings onto him, forcing the words to stick in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about Harry's ex-wife – she’d always stood between them. From the beginning, she had been between them.

“I just want you to try… I’ve never asked you that before. So just try.”

They couldn’t break their embrace for a long time when it was time for him to leave. He refused to let go, gently stroking Harry's back with soothing movements. The leaves quietly rustled above their heads, it was another ordinary autumn day.

In the car, he turned around and stared at the empty road behind him for a long time. John couldn’t believe that he had the opportunity to change something for the better, but he was willing to work with what he had.

Holmes had waited all this time in the car and said nothing, surprising John who was expecting at least one barbed comment about wasted time. They stopped in a respectable area of London near a nice house with a wrought fence, through which they could see the lawn and a small summer-house under the trees.

John involuntarily straightened his jacket and collar. It turned out that Brian's family was quite wealthy, but they still hadn’t received any demands for money. And now all they could do was try to cope with each other's grief. He quickly caught the sleeve of Holmes's coat and pulled him back.

“Sherlock, I'm begging you, restrain yourself a little,” he muttered.

All his past experience told him that he could only ask and hope that his request would at least have some influence on the detective’s behaviour. If he behaved as usual, they would most likely be simply thrown out of the house. But perhaps they would have time to find out something important before that happened.

“We are from Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes announced over the intercom and eagerly opened the unlocked gate.

They were waited for. A woman with tears in her eyes opened the door to them. Judging by the similarity to the photo of Brian, she was his mother.

“Good day, Mrs. Bower,” John hurried to greet her, not trusting detective in this.

“Just Amanda,” sniffed the distraught woman. “Inspector Lestrade warned me to expect you. Although I don't think I can add anything to what has already been said.”

John was pleasantly surprised by Holmes’ restrained behaviour while he asked some very strange questions. Then Sherlock asked to have a look not only into the boy's room, but even in the basement and did everything without making any inappropriate remarks.

After questioning Amanda for no more than 15 minutes, Holmes went to talk to the staff, leaving John to sit with the grieving mother. They hadn’t been able to meet the boy's father and his uncle.

“What about Mr. Bower? Shall we visit him in his office?” John looked at his watch. No wonder he was so hungry, it was twenty past three.

“Later if we need to.”

“Don't you think it's strange that Brian is different from the other missing children? Why not choose a blind kid again? After all, someone took them because of their blindness. What do you think? “

“Yes, yes, John. I need to go to Barts.”

“Do you need me?”

“… No. Go back to Baker Street. I might need your assistance, so don't plan anything.”

At first, John really was going to return to Baker Street, but he decided that he did not want to cook at all. Especially, as he would have to drop by the store and buy something first. So he called Bill, wishing that his last girlfriend was still present and was cooking for him. Although the ability to cook was the last thing that interested Murray in his girlfriends. In addition, John hoped to gain some information from him. And ok, Bill was his friend - he didn’t need excuses to see him.

He had met Murray long before Afghanistan, but after being invalided out he didn’t imagine they would cross paths one day. But life was always full of surprises and they crossed paths again and again. And now he, John Watson, was sitting in the kitchen in not very affluent area of London and was looking at the man whom he had met one rainy morning a few years ago.

“Hey, do you have anything to eat?”

Bill smirked and silently rose from the table.

“You’re lucky that I have yesterday's left-over risotto.”

“You cook?”

“Of course,” grinned Bill.

“Fuck the prejudice! Marry me.”

Having finished his portion, John leaned back contentedly in his chair and watched as Bill washed the dishes. The muscles on his back were moving harmoniously under a faded t-shirt – the simple actions lulling him with their monotony. John forced himself to shake off sleep, now was not the best time to rest.

“Bill, is there any chance that you remember the Spider case, the serial kidnapper of blind kids?” he asked, deciding not to beat around the bush.

“Another interesting case for Holmes?” Bill asked, curiously, receiving only a vague shrug from John in return. “Hmmm… How long has it been?”

“Since 2007. And a new kidnapping a few days ago.”

“Ok. Let me think… I returned at the end of 2008. And I remember the hype in media. There were a lot of rumours, and we thought it all was due to some club for perverts.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing else. I can ask the guys if you want.”

“No, thanks though.”

He was not surprised to get a new message from Holmes. He had the impression that Sherlock knew just exactly when to send his bloody texts.

Baker Street. Urgent. SH.

John already knew from hard-gained experience that nothing good came from such messages. And of course he was right. To his regret, Sherlock didn’t share any conclusions about the case with him, and they spent the whole evening fighting with the fire alarm. In fact, to be quite accurate, it was John who fought with the fire alarm while Sherlock was busy with an absolutely mad experiment with fire.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy))

John Watson had never thought that an accidental injury would not only mark the end of his career but also negate all of his former life. He could never have guessed that in the end, circumstances would lead him to where he was today. The dim light of a single bulb in the room didn't interfere with his skills to operate on the type of stab wound that was so familiar to him. In this part of town, the victim’s last hope was to find an underground doctor who would agree to accept the risk. Or go to hospital and deal with the cops.

“Where’s Murray?”

“Today I'm filling in for him,” John said sullenly from the utility room. He looked out to see who might be seeking Bill - who clearly knew him and came to him only. And what he saw, John didn't like one bit.

The poor fellow that John spotted was really out of luck, but at least he’d known where to come. More precisely, his companion was aware of where to come. John took one look at the couple in order to understand his instinctive reaction – he could almost smell trouble. These two were strikingly different from the usual clientele of such place – clothes too expensive, behaviour too confident. Everything about them was crying out Problem to John, in big letters.

The cold blue eyes on the first man’s tanned face looked icy and a little amused. John froze. At first, he hadn’t found it necessary to consider the newcomers more closely, noting only their clothes to himself in the dim light. But those eyes he would have recognized anywhere. The face had changed, becoming even more mature and tougher, but the eyes had not changed.

It was hard to believe, but it looked like Mycroft's plan had already begun to bring results. He had no reason to be happy meeting this man again, but John did not bother to pretend he did not recognize Sebastian Moran. And he had no doubt that the person standing in front of him also recognized him.

His current assistant, Charlie, who John liked to work with, tried to merge with the wall. After realizing that he would get no help from the guy, John was left with no other choice but to let the strange pair in and help the wounded man lie down on the operating table in this room, similar to the other.

“Wait your turn.”

His other patient was still waiting in the next room. A young lad, still a boy, whom John had been stitching up. He had already turned away to return to the boy and his cuts when a steady hand in a black glove caught him by the elbow.

“Doctor, I have to ask you to help this patient immediately.”

Watson, as gently as he could, freed himself from the tenacious grip and shook his head.

“I'll be free in five minutes. Wait your turn.”

“Maybe this will make you more accommodating.” It was not even a question; more an assertion. When a decent bunch of money was waved near his face, John just shook his head.

“Charlie, how many times have I asked you to protect me from this?” He looked at Bill's assistant, reproachfully. The guy just paled further and continued to huddle in silence by the wall. John really disliked such visits, so all the assistants had been warned about his terms, but it didn't prevent them ignoring them. He didn't know why he even bothered sometimes.

“Leave or wait for your turn.”

Nothing had foreshadowed such a night; he should not have been so optimistic. His new patient jerked and moaned softly, forcing John to hurry. Working almost always without pain medication was not easy, moreover, the majority of his clients, as a rule, were already rather exhausted from blood loss by the time they got to him. No matter how much he had argued with Bill about the meagre stock of antiseptics and pain meds, they had never been in the right quantity.

Securing the last stitch, John encouragingly patted the guy on his good leg in the expensive trousers: “You will live. Just watch out for infection. Bed rest and a fresh bandage at least once every day or so, and you'll be like new in two weeks.”

Moran, who had waited patiently during the treatment, perked up, causing John's patient to pale even more, if that were possible in his current state. But a black handgun with a silencer made John pale too.

“Hey, I didn’t help him for you to start poking a gun at him.”

John knew that he ought not to meddle and speak up for the stranger, but he didn’t care for others not respecting his work – especially work for which he risked his own freedom and sometimes even his well-being.

“Please, leave. I don't need any trouble.”

“Ah, our little brave doctor is still the same.” Moran's smile appeared grim, but not threatening, almost as if the he didn’t know how to smile properly.

Indeed, he hadn’t changed a bit, John thought. He gritted his teeth and deliberately took the wad of money, lying forgotten on the table. He counted out the usual fee, and tucked the rest into the jacket pocket of the man lying quietly on the table. After that he helped him get up and led him to his unpleasant companion. There wasn’t nothing more he could do for the poor sod. 

After the departure of the strange pair, John stood for some time near the door, listening to the sounds of the street. Not hearing any screams or yelling, he turned to his assistant, relieved.

“How are you feeling, Charlie? Everything ok?”

“Ok… Kind of…,” responded Charlie and slowly slid down the wall to the floor. “And if I were you, John, next time I would silently do whatever he asks.”

“Next time, don't panic, and put visitors like them in their place.”

“If only I was like you, John.”

The rest of the night passed without any significant incidents, except two guys who had received minor stabs wounds in a street brawl. John wanted to get some sleep in his own bed before the morning shift at the clinic. He was pleasantly surprised that he got his wish.

Holmes was not home, so John went to bed without any delay, not forgetting to set the alarm for 6:30. It seemed that just a couple of minutes had passed, although it could have been hours, when the door of his bedroom opened with a loud bang, but as no one was actually shaking him by the shoulders, forcing to rise, John drifted back to sleep.

Dragging himself out of bed with some difficulty at the alarm call, he slowly dressed and after having some tea and toast, went to the clinic. Merging into a crowd of people hurrying to work just as he was in this early morning hour, John did not feel like himself. Strangely, he felt like a wolf in sheep's clothing. He reflected that if the people around him only took a closer look at him, they would know who was hiding behind the mask of calm and friendliness. Sometimes it seemed that the Holmes brothers were the only ones who saw through him and his defences; who had, from the beginning, considered him without his usual mask of normality. But he, unlike Sherlock, was able to pretend to be normal.

After the shift, he went to Tesco to buy milk and eggs, not having any hope that Holmes would have done so. It was a real blessing (and saved a lot of food preparation time) that they had so many food delivery services to call upon; even Angelo made an exception for them.

Today he fancied something Indian, so spent the entire taxi ride home imagining what he would order. John did not know whether Sherlock would eat or not as they currently had a case on their hands, but the detective was not very enthusiastic about it.

This time Holmes was home. And occupying the sofa as usual, typing fiercely to someone.

“Hello. Back long?”

“No. Tea will do for now.”

“Ok.” John stretched wearily. He was no longer so young that he could have only few hours of sleep per night and then feel cheerful and full of energy.

“Don't plan anything for this evening. We will be having dinner with Mycroft.”

++**++

If John had known at that moment what this dinner would consist of, well… no, he wouldn’t have argued, but he certainly would have made an effort to be better prepared mentally. And he would have never refused. Firstly, he was curious. And secondly, Sherlock walked after him, making it very difficult for John to change from work, until John finally grumbled: "Yes! Just don't bother me!" After that, the detective appeased by their agreement, disappeared somewhere, and John was finally left alone.

In the evening, there was a surprise for him in the form of an expensive suit lying on his bed with a tie and freshly ironed shirt. John stood stupidly over the bad and the suit for a long time. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding he thought in the end.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, would you be so kind as to tell me what someone else's clothes are doing in my room?”

Holmes looked at him in bewilderment and then went back to typing on a laptop…. John's laptop, as if he didn’t own one of his own.

“The suit is for you,” the detective finally confirmed with his "don't make me say the obvious" tone.

“Why do I need a new one if I have one already which suits me perfectly?”

“I don't like it.”

“What the…! But I like it.”

“It's bad enough that I have to put up with your choice of casual clothes. Oh, those sweaters. The beige - disgusting thing, the blue and striped one… and the red! Ok, the striped is not so bad as the others. Yes, how many do you have? It's just a crime against humanity and good taste!”

John gaped at him for a moment, and then buried his face in hands, his shoulders beginning to shake with barely suppressed laughter. If only he had a camera to hand to capture that look of fastidious disgust on Sherlock’s face. No, no, he should not be amused by this. It was all wrong on so many levels. John could not say that he loved or even liked his sweaters, but they were comfortable and warm. Besides, in them he looked harmless and, yes, an unmanly word – cuddly.

“John? Are you all right?” John heard, as Sherlock stood up and took a few hesitant steps towards him.

After John broke down and began to laugh out loud, and Sherlock, offended, locked himself in his bedroom with a laptop, the incident seemed to be resolved strangely enough. At first, these dinners with Mycroft had been a little strange and uncomfortable, but always informative and amusing. While the brothers exchanged caustic remarks and observations on other visitors, John enjoyed great food and company. And every time it seemed as if both Holmes were showing off in front of him. Then it turned out that such gatherings once a month were sort of a tribute to tradition. The fact that he was now included in this monthly ritual, though it puzzled him, also was very flattering.

But this time, their destination was not another restaurant selected by Mycroft. The car stopped near the lighted porch of a multi-storey building in an exclusive and expensive area of London.

“It’s one of Mycroft's flats – his favourite one.”

“If I’d known we would dine at Mycroft's home, I would not have dressed up,” muttered John under his breath. Not the he didn’t like the suit Sherlock had bought for him – in fact, he liked it a lot. It fit him perfectly, and the shirt matched his eyes well. But he really would have preferred his comfortable jeans and sweater. So now, he took off the tie and put it in his pocket, then after some thought, even unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt.

The atmosphere of understated luxury in the apartment of the older Holmes impressed John, and, of course, it could not be otherwise. He was pleasantly surprised by the smartly furnished interior and colour choice. From Mycroft, he knew the addresses of several apartments that Sherlock used as a cover and safe bases for particularly important or dangerous cases. And since John had not had a chance to visit any of them, he was curious to know whether they were reminiscent of Baker Street or of this place. Although the latter was unlikely.

Mycroft, as a gracious host, poured them glasses of wine and went back to his cooking in the perfectly laid-out kitchen.

“I didn't take you for the cooking type,” John confessed honestly, curiously watching the perfectly managed movements of Mycroft’s hands stirring something in two pans.

“Sherlock can also cook, but he prefers to hide that fact.”

“What? Sherlock, you can cook?”

In fact, it made perfect sense if you compared cooking with a chemical experiment, John decided. It was a pity that he couldn’t capitalize on this this new knowledge in any way - entrust cooking in their flat to the detective and there was a real chance that they would not just stay hungry but that the whole apartment would simply been blown up.

Dinner was spent in an easy relaxed atmosphere. Even Sherlock's occasional observations could not spoil this it, and John waited for the next part of the evening with some anticipation. It was unlikely that Mycroft would have invited them to his home if he didn’t want to discuss something really important away from prying eyes. And the older Holmes brother had clearly chosen the place where he felt most safe.

When the dessert was finished, they finally moved into the living room and sat across from each other. John looked in silence from one brother to the other, but even his patience had limits.

“And? Will anybody tell me what’s going on here?”

“The dinner this evening is Mycroft's answer to one of my requests,” Sherlock shared, reluctantly.

“Has it something to do with the case of the missing kids?”

“You are right, John. As you correctly guessed, our conversation will be about the case that was closed more than six months ago, and now has been reopened although it should not have been.” Mycroft sank into his chair and folded his hands in front of him in the gesture of prayer now so familiar to John. “This case was particularly delicate, because it involved several high-ranking officials. I still can't give away any details. And it was very important to prevent any leaking of information. When Sherlock took the case and, while investigating, realized what was happening, he told me. And I, in return, did everything possible to quietly hush up this story. Unfortunately for Detective-Inspector Lestrade, who is still not aware of my intervention, the case had remained unsolved and went into the archive. And, when a few days ago, another child went missing, Sherlock instantly knew that this kidnapping was not connected with that case.

“What about Brian?” John asked quickly.

“He is all right. And alive and well. I assure you, John, there is nothing to worry about.”

“So, I’m guessing you knew where the boy was right from the start, right?” Now John looked at Sherlock with suspicion.

“I only knew that he was safe, and therefore I didn’t need to take any hasty action,” the detective began to excuse himself, giving John a nervous look. “And after examining the house, everything fell into place. At Barts, I spent time on tests confirming the DNA, so by the evening I had a full picture of what happened. And then I wondered what the boy's uncle would do, once keeping the boy would no longer be possible.”

“Arghhh!” In a fit of rage, John threw a designer cushion at Sherlock's head. Who was not expecting such a turn of events, so did not have time to dodge and was now looking in shock at John - who by now was trying not to laugh out loud.

“Be so kind as to share the details with your public,” he suggested, sarcastically. 

The detective blinked a little at his sudden change of mood – clearly he had been expecting an argument.

“Since the possibility of kidnapping, although not fully dismissed, was not the first suspicion for me, I found it necessary to check the boy's closest entourage. And since he was too young to amass his own enemies, then it could be the enemies of the family. After spending hours getting acquainted with the available information on the Bower family, I jotted down five possible scenarios. And only after talking to the servants and having been in the boy's room, did I realise that the kidnapper was from the family. More specifically, that I already knew him.”

“And what gave the kidnapper away?” John listened eagerly to the unhurried narrative of the detective. It was so unusual to see him so relaxed and, to some extent, even peaceful. He wondered whether it was the influence of the situation in general, his and Mycroft's presence, a hearty dinner or all of the elements together.

“Game console.”

“Game console?” John looked at Mycroft seeking his support, but he just smiled and shook his head.

“How many 13-year old boys do you know that will go anywhere for several days without their console, knowing that there will be no other entertainment besides tv?”

“Well, if you consider that the average age of most of my friends is over 20 years, I don't know a single one,” grinned John and, to suppress Sherlock's outrage, quickly added, “but I can well imagine such a hypothetical kid. And also the fact that any friend of this hypothetical teen would have his own console, if we suppose that Brian had just gone to see a friend.”

“Exactly. Why take it if you know you are coming back home in the evening? And, even more so why take it if you’re just going over to a friend? So we are interested in an adult, one who the kid trusts, and who knows his daily routine perfectly. From that, everything is simple.”

“God. This is already beginning to resemble a melodrama rather than an investigation… Wait a minute… All this time, the kid has been with his uncle? And no one has visited his apartment? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes. I think the boy is now in the country house of Bower junior. And there is a perfect sense to everything if it's your child.”

“You think the uncle is the father?”

“Gossip. I just confirmed it with DNA analysis. More precisely, I confirmed that Mr. Bower senior is not the biological father of Brian. Servants’ gossip is a very valuable source of information.”

“And when did you plan to reveal this to his parents? Oh, no, don't tell me that you wanted to wait!”

“Ok, I won't say that if you insist.”

“God damn, Sherlock! Amanda is half-mad with anxiety and uncertainty. How can you be so heartless!” John jumped up, reaching for his mobile.

“John!”

“I'm calling Lestrade! And we - sorry Mycroft - will go and get the boy!”

++**++

Stopping at the familiar entrance, John called and waited patiently to be allowed to come in. He frowned. Glancing around the dark corridor, John could not help listening out for voices or any kind of sound. It was unusually quiet. Neither the sounds of muffled voices nor the familiar sound of a radio - nothing.

John went through the familiar corridors, breathing in the moist warm air and tried to calm his pounding heart. He was disturbed by his anxiety, it reminded him of the days in the sun-drenched valleys of Afghanistan and the gritty feel of dust on his teeth.

He didn’t go into the store room they used as an operating theatre. The black expansive car attracted his attention. Its polished sides reflected grey dirty walls and frames of pillars supporting the roof slabs. If he didn’t know better, he would have decided that it was all Mycroft’s doing.

“Finally,” said Bill grimly, over his shoulder. The presence of his old comrade could mean anything but most likely – trouble.

“What is it?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh, really?” John snorted and quickly looked around. Once again glad that he’d brought his gun, John slowly walked right up to Bill. “You know I'm not interested in contracts.”

“I know. That’s not it.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Moran asked me, and you know I can't say no to him. I'm not you.”

“Mr. Murray brightened my time waiting with his company. And also was a guarantee that you would come.”

John shuddered and turned his head towards the voice. Appreciating the other man's ability to effectively appear out of nowhere, he could barely restrain himself from drawing his gun. Bill caught his hand and gently squeezed.

The man who could hide in the shadows so skillfully was not familiar to him. John thought that he reminded him of someone, but the stranger who approached them had an unusual and memorable face with high forehead and empty black eyes.

“Doctor Watson, I'm asking only some of your time and attention. And no, I'm afraid you can't refuse.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not, Doctor Watson.”

Expensive suit, expensive shoes. Having lived with Sherlock, he had unwittingly become better at recognising brands and designs. A quiet voice and absolutely quiet movements. And if not for the deliberate shuffling at every step, John might have decided that the stranger was a figment of his imagination.

The level of conspiracy suggested secret service and political secrets. Or, on the other hand, suggested very big money and something very illegal. It would not be any surprise to John if, by accident, this man was lucky to be involved in both. It also seemed that Mycroft was not the only one who liked a striking appearance.

He had no choice but to accept. He kept looking around out of habit. But it was still the same abandoned warehouse, empty shelves along the walls and suspicious looking boxes.

“You know, you could have taken my number from Bill and just called.”

“Meeting in person may be a little old-fashioned, but much more effective these days.”

“Then maybe we'll get straight to the point.”

Thin lips stretched into a pleasant smile, but the dark eyes remained empty.

“Moran praised you a lot. So I decided to meet in person and, so to speak, get my own impression of you.”

John didn’t like standing in plain view - a not very favourable position as there was no chance to reach an exit or any more-or-less suitable cover in time. But there was not a single point for a sniper. And if Moran was involved, he was in big-big trouble indeed. He only needed the man himself to appear in person to complete the picture of a totally shitty evening.

Meanwhile, the strange man approached the car and opened the trunk.

“And to demonstrate your skills and Moran's words to me, you will need this.” With these words, he gave John a bag that jingled with the familiar sound of medical tools. “And Mr. Murray.”

John did not even have time to object, as he saw the flash of gun with a silencer, and then there were two quiet shots.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Hold on, Murray!”

“Sorry, Johnny,” Bill croaked, gasping in pain.

“Shut up and hold still,” John quickly and without fuss was rummaging in the contents of the bag that had been given to him. The wounds were not fatal and were not complicated; it was just like being back in Afghanistan. The distance was too close for the bullets not to go right through, and his hands were moving automatically, performing the needed actions.

“You know where the operating room is, John.”

“Fucker! Fucking sick bastard!”

“You can call me Jim.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ))mmm)) soon there will be the end)))

John had about two weeks to prepare for Harry's discharge from the clinic. He decided not to delay getting some repairs done to her flat. He took a few days off from the clinic and made changes to the shifts, of which he’d had to take on more since Bill's injury. John was still bursting with anger recalling the meeting with that nutcase.

It was much harder to negotiate everything with Holmes, who wanted to know everything, even the minor details of his day. And John had no idea how he could explain to the detective the concepts of repainting and rearrangement, which were clear to all the other people on the planet.

“Why waste time on this, when Mycroft's people can do everything faster and better?”

He just tiredly rubbed the tip of his nose as he saw Sherlock reaching for the laptop on his knees.

“There are some things you need to do all by yourself. Doesn't matter whether you like it or not, but just by yourself. Do you understand?”

Holmes looked curiously at him as if he expected him to continue. But John was not going to explain exactly why he had to paint the walls in Harry's flat or move couches, and why he didn’t want his sister to go back to her old life. Even if it was still the same apartment.

John even wanted to ask for Sherlock's help, but then waived this idea away – he did not want to look stupid asking for the detective’s advice in choosing new curtains or new upholstery for the sofa. He did not doubt Holmes's taste, but was not sure he could stand listening to the detective’s usual diatribe about his own lack of taste for hours on end. So he just told him that he would be absent for several days and could be disturbed only as a last resort – emphasizing that that was only as a matter of life and death and that a desire for a cup of tea did not count in that category.

“John, just so you know, I lived perfectly fine on my own before your appearance in my life.”

“Sorry for doubting that, as the facts tend to scream the opposite,” and, with these words, John picked his army bag and left.

He had even thought about asking for Sarah's support, as a woman’s hand in such affairs could be a real help, but at the last minute he changed his mind. And he wanted to call Clara of all people even less. He could not help remembering Mycroft's flat, where the hand of good designer was visible in every corner. He liked the combination of quiet grey walls with dark furniture. Although he was not sure that the colour choice would suit a thirty-something woman.

The cluttered apartment, with a decent layer of dust on all possible surfaces and with a constant reminder of what had happened, no longer seemed the best place to return to. John looked around and could not understand how it had never occurred to him to restore the order here. He would not have liked to return to the chaos after a long absence.

First, all the numerous empty bottles were gone in the trash bin. All full and even unopened were mercilessly poured into the sink and also put into the garbage bags. Later he would have to make more than one to the recycling bins to get rid of the collected glass.

Armed with empty boxes from a nearby supermarket, he removed all the cabinets and shelves, moved the bigger furniture into the middle of the living room and removed the curtains. In his sister's bedroom he stood for some time over the bed, deciding what to do with it. And still having no ideas after ten minutes of thought, John began the main job of cleaning.

Stopping only once for a snack, in about three hours he had finished washing the cabinets and the floors. Now he had only to sort out the most ingrained mess in the bedroom so it did not interfere with painting the walls.

The doorbell distracted him from unscrewing the bedroom furniture. He was not even surprised, although by his estimation, Sherlock was supposed to be somewhere else an hour later.

“Hello.” John opened the door, but was in no hurry to move aside.

“Well, will you let me in or not? And don't look so smug. I was bored.”

John stepped aside, letting Sherlock inside. The detective walked through the flat, even looked into the kitchen and bathroom.

“In your place, I would have painted the walls a rich beige colour. But not the bedroom. And throw this awful couch away.” Sherlock motioned toward the maroon sofa, which John also didn’t like. It was too narrow and uncomfortable to spend a whole night on.

“Anything else?”

“If you want, I could help,” Sherlock suggested, as if choosing his words carefully.

John almost dropped his screwdriver in surprise.

“You want to help me paint the walls?”

“I’ve never done this, so I'm intrigued,” shrugged Sherlock, taking his coat off. “I hope you are not going to insist that we have to throw the furniture all by ourselves. Or is it also a part of the ritual?”

“No,” laughed John. “I was going to hire movers.”

“I have just the men for a job like this.”

In about an hour, there was another ring at the door, and John let three strange-looking men in. He strongly suspected that they were some of Holmes' informants and members of his little personal information army.

Sherlock's participation in the overall process was limited mostly to sitting on a chair and watching him - sometimes, however, he was helpful with taking or holding something.

“That's all for now. We need to go shopping. And it would be really nice to have a meal somewhere.”

“Then let's go.” Holmes got up and reached for his coat.

Choosing paint for the walls and skirting boards, John could not shake the feeling that they resembled a long-married couple. Each time the thought made him ridiculously warm inside but for the most part made him smile. Also, he trusted Sherlock with choosing new curtains for the leaving room more than himself. Frankly, he had hoped to limit the epic idea of redecorating to just repainting the walls and changing some furniture. But of course, Sherlock had his own understanding of the process.

Returning to the flat, he was sure that Sherlock would immediately go back to Baker Street, to the familiar surroundings, to his experiments, to his investigations and suspects. But the detective remained, even though John had not asked him to stay.

“I'll spend the night here and start painting the living room in the morning,” John decided to explain. “So you don't have to stay. You’ve already helped more than I expected.”

“I'll stay nevertheless. I can't miss such an exciting thing as painting the walls.”

“But there's only one bed here.”

“It's big enough for two of us. Problem?”

“Umm…. No.”

“Excellent.”

“Aren't you bored so far?”

“No.”

Lying in Harry's bed next to a quiet Sherlock, John was worried that he would not sleep at all and actually felt a little bit awkward. He listened to their breathing until falling asleep unexpectedly, thinking that it would be great if he could manage to inspire Holmes for few days more until he was finished with everything.

++**++

“Sherlock.”

John stood over Holmes on the sofa. The detective lay with his eyes closed and refused to give any sign of life except for a barely noticeable movement of his chest. This meant that the ongoing conversation would not be easy one. Well it was partly his fault.

“Sherlock, I’m collecting Harry from the clinic tomorrow, and I would like to do it alone.”

Ok, he had said it. Still there was no response.

“You’ve helped me a lot and for that I am endlessly grateful. And I think Harry will appreciate it too…”

“You imply without my interference, or interference from Mycroft or anyone else.” Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes, ignoring John's last words completely.

“Yes,” John sighed with relief.

“Why?”

“It's private.”

“And photos of me in that jeans and shirt of yours are also private, yet still you sent them to that Murray fellow.”

“Sorry, mate, it was hard to resist.” He really could not resist the temptation. When they had both decided that Sherlock should not paint walls in his expensive suit, John had given him his old jeans, of course a bit wide and short, as well as his t-shirt. And of course, he could not know that Holmes would look so unusual in ordinary clothes… In John's clothes. “Just be grateful I didn't send them to Mycroft. Or post on my blog.”

“You wouldn't.”

“You sure?”

“Make them disappear forever and you can have the whole day to yourself. I won't interfere.”

“I rather like them.” John didn’t want to get rid of any photos of Sherlock. The man had no pictures at all, not counting the ones required for official documents. Not a single reminder of past events or of people associated with him.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Very much. They are unusual and perfect - er, perfectly representative of the help you’ve given me – and Harry, of course “ he broke off, abruptly, feeling that he was beginning to blush.

“And still I insist on their disposal.”

“Ok, you can text me, call or demand my assistance. Don't be surprised though if I won't answer. Because I will be busy with family business.”

After this conversation, John hoped that Sherlock would last at least until the evening and his curiosity and boredom would not result on any irreparable consequences.

Collecting his sister from the clinic the next morning, he unwittingly felt nervous. He didn’t know how she would react to the world around her, even after having a long conversation with her doctor and psychologist. John could only guess how Harry would react to his initiative of redecorating her flat, but he did not care anymore. Spreading the latest books and knick-knacks on the shelves he had smiled contentedly to himself and closed the flat until Harry's return. He had done it all not only for his sister but for himself as well. Maybe now he would not lie awake at night, seeking escape from his nightmares and thinking that he had not done enough or tried hard enough to help her.

Harry Watson was able to surprise her brother just as suddenly, though not as often, as Sherlock Holmes could. John watched with mild alarm for his sister while she hesitantly walked from room to room, touching the familiar things in their new surroundings. Then she just walked over and hugged him.

“Thank you.”

John stroked her warm back, softly fingering her blonde hair as he recalled a similar scene but in different circumstances. And he could not help thinking about how things had changed over the last several months. Not only had the circumstances changed, he himself had changed – the reality of that struck him suddenly.

“Are you hungry?”

“I'm dying for pizza.”

“I know a great place, you'll love it.”

The place had been shown to him, of course, by Sherlock. For some time he had had a suspicion that almost every owner of the cafés and restaurants in a three-block radius of Baker Street was obliged to Holmes in one way or another. John often wondered if it had somehow happened by accident or if Holmes had somehow managed to arrange things so he could have free food whenever his body was demanding it.

“Has something happened?”

“No.” John was surprised by the question. “Everything’s ok. Why are you asking?”

“You are constantly checking your phone. So I thought that maybe you were waiting for an important call.”

John was embarrassed and hid his mobile in his pocket. He didn’t want to remind his sister of her ex, even if it was just her present, which he now so shamelessly used while checking if there were any messages from Sherlock. What a stupid situation.

“You look happy. Grounded.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Is that Holmes man treating you well? I suppose he pays well.”

“Mmm… Yes. I'm all right with everything.”

During the last few months, he had stopped seeing their relationship as only a working one. In fact, John had begun to think more and more of Sherlock as a friend. A strange one, but also a true one. The kind of friend for whom he was ready to do stupid things and to risk his own life and safety, and not only because he was paid to do so. Even the money that he continued to receive on a weekly basis was spent mostly on the detective and his experiments. Their taxi rides alone cost a small fortune.

Looking at his sister under his eyelashes John suddenly realized that he would gladly risk his life and welfare for Sherlock even if he was not paid for that. Even if it was not asked of him.

“I'm happy to know that you are ok, John.”

++**++

John met Mycroft almost as regularly as he met Bill and Lestrade. Usually it was in the most unexpected places, the choice of which he tried not to be surprised by. A couple of times they even met in hotel rooms. And if he were a bystander, he probably would have formed the opinion that these were secret meetings. Sometimes they would sit over their tea just talking about various things, but mostly discussing Sherlock and their work together. It was a very safe topic in John's opinion.

However there was a good reason for doing exactly this. John really preferred that their conspiracy resembled a meeting of two lovers than something more serious to the outside observer.

Sherlock, of course, being childish and possessive, did not like his frequent appointments with Mycroft or with his friends, and if the latter was not even discussed, the detective could only begrudge his own brother. Part of the reason why his meetings with Holmes senior could not be under the Baker Street roof were dictated by their inability to talk properly in the same room as a sulking Sherlock.

Mycroft was very pleased with his progress. They had not expected that they would be able to contact Moran so soon. Even though John was not happy with the prospect of communicating with Sebastian Moran, he was ready to suffer.

Returning after one more appointment with Mycroft, he asked to be dropped off near the park. It was really nice weather and he did not want to sit in the four walls in their flat waiting for Sherlock to show up.

“John! John Watson!”

John turned around. A short stout men with a pleasant face came up to him. As John had passed him sitting on the bench reading a newspaper, he had seemed vaguely familiar to him.

“Mike. Mike Stamford. We studied together.”

“Sorry, Mike. Didn’t recognize you. Hello.” John really did not recognize his former classmate; he’d thought that maybe he was one of their clients, not associating him with his Uni days.

“I know-I know. I got fat,” Mike chuckled, brushing off John’s polite denial.

They looked at each other with surprise.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot.” What else could he say? He really had got shot.

They went to the nearest café to drink some coffee and remember their student years.

“So you are still at Barts then?”

“Teaching now - bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them. What about you?”

“Well working here and there.”

“Private practice? This is our John Watson!”

“It’s been hard to find work with my injury.”

“Oh, sorry…”

Ok, not the most awkward conversation he had in his life but still a bit not good.

“Are you on a break?”

“You could say so. Now my lab is… ummm…. Currently my laboratory is occupied by one person. Just between us, strictly speaking, he should not be there at all. Only God knows what fragile and expensive equipment we use. And if something happens, the postgraduate dean will tear my head off. But you see, he rescued me in one case, and now I just can't refuse…”

Somehow he could guess exactly who they were discussing right now. And he was curious what his friend from Uni thought of Holmes.

“So is he a scientist?”

“Not quite. He knows anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist, but it seems that he has never studied medicine systematically. I would say that he is obsessed with science, and in him it borders on callousness. That man is currently sitting at my workplace. He either does not show for weeks or sits there day and night. If you want, we can go there right now.

From the park, they went to Barts continuing to reminisce about their student years. The few times that John had been back at his alma mater, he had not had the opportunity to go past the morgue, so now he looked around curiously. Everything in the building was familiar to him: the endless walls of long corridors and numerous sets of doors with different nameplates. The laboratory was empty, and only the far corner was occupied by Sherlock Holmes, hunched over the table. John had wondered where he’d gone so early that morning.

“Holmes, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

“Ah, John, exactly the man I need. Give me a hand here,” Sherlock demanded immediately, barely glancing at them.

“You know each other?” Now it was Mike's turn to look surprised.

“We live together,” explained Holmes and handed John a flask containing a suspicious-looking substance. John just groaned and rolled his eyes. Again. No wonder everyone around them thought they were a couple, after statements like that.

“Oh!... So this is that John.”

Watson frowned.

“Mike, what is he saying about me behind my back?”

“Well…. In general Sherlock compares you to others. And not in their favour, I must say.”

“Seriously? Who would have thought,” John chuckled, pleased with such praise.

“Mike. You need to be absent for at least 15 minutes more,” said Holmes, looking with distaste at the good-natured Stamford, who hastened to say his goodbyes to them and leave.

“So I'm better than others.”

“Don't be dull. Of course, you are better. Different. Otherwise I wouldn’t tolerate your presence in my life.”

John paused. For the first time, Sherlock had confirmed with words what he had demonstrated again and again with his actions and in whatever ways the detective was accustomed to.

“Well, you know, it's always nice to know that you appreciate me,” John teased him. “How long do I have to hold this flask for?”

“Put it aside.”

A comfortable silence hung between them as John attentively watched Sherlock’s careful hands, while the detective pretended not to notice. Then the phone in John's pocket came to life with an incoming message.

Sherlock with you? MH

“If it's Mycroft, tell him I have no time to do any legwork for him,” grumbled Sherlock. “And if it's Lestrade, he’d better bring me all those folders of cases I have requested.”

Yes. Sends his hello. Being childish. JW

“What cases?”

“Old murder cases where the victims’ left hands were cut off.”

“If you want, I can ask him, as a thanks to you for your help with Harry's recovery.” John remembered that he had still had not managed to thank the detective properly for his assistance. After living with Holmes for months now he knew how poorly the detective took compliments or praise, pretending that they were unimportant but craving them nevertheless. Holmes sought approval only from a couple of people - the people whose opinions were really valued by him. And he, John, was lucky enough to be one of them, or so it seemed.

“If you would be so kind. Lestrade will listen to you, I’m sure.”

“Anything, as long as you are never bored,” John teased and went to make a call to Greg. He didn’t like it one bit when Sherlock was sulking in their flat with nothing to occupy his mind. John tried to comfort himself with the hope that, if only he was not so desperately bored, he would not be so damned happy to engage in the dangerous games that the detective was invited to play with Moriarty.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done with posting it here)))  
> Again a lot of thanks to librarianmum as my beta))
> 
> Russian vertion is slightly different from this but mostly in some phrases
> 
> Originally I thought that I would do more case fic but then I wrote it only for several scenes between boys so not much of the case fic)) and I wanted to make John BAFM because lets face it - the show not anought of that))) ^___^
> 
> enjoy))

“I've disappointed you.” That was not a question, it was a statement. Impossible eyes closely watched his every move. John did not like it when his emotions were so meticulously and methodically studied and laid out; he didn’t like feeling as if he was on his regular appointment at the psychoanalyst, but somehow most of his conversations with Sherlock ended up like this.

“It's good. It's a good deduction.”

John did not like a lot about this current situation with Moriarty. He didn’t like not being able to do anything except watch helplessly as the detective and the criminal mastermind played their reckless game at the expense of other people’s lives.

“Maybe it's enough? Maybe it's time to stop all this? There are lives at stake. Sherlock! Actual human lives – ok, just so I know, do you care about that at all?”

Wall. A blank wall instead of an answer.

“Don't make people into heroes, John. They don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.”

A sudden text tone from the pink phone made John shudder involuntarily.

“Excellent.” Sherlock picked up the expensive toy with a confident gesture and opened the message. The world's only consulting detective gracefully rose from his chair and straightened his jacket.

“Are you with me?”

“Of course,” sighed John. The game with Moriarty was on once more; in fact, he strongly suspected it had never stopped. Only now something has changed, and it had gone to a whole new level. The level of publicity and the direct threats…

If at first he had silently appreciated all the puzzles thrown in Sherlock’s direction, as time passed, he had grown disgusted and horrified. Anyone who knew the bored detective in person would have understood his meaning – it was perfectly logical… for him. But with each new message, his feelings of despair at the inevitability of a grim end grew stronger and stronger in John. Every instinct was screaming at him that this couldn’t end in anything but tragedy.

And he just knew that the confrontation with the Golem was only the beginning. The killer had fought so desperately because he had been driven into a corner. The most frightening and unpredictable aspect of their situation was that it could only be leading towards a meeting with the man who conducted everything that was happening around them. And they were slowly and steadily moving towards that meeting.

John didn’t believe that Sherlock did not care. He saw the clinging hands, sudden uncharacteristic movement as if Holmes was afraid that he did not have time, was afraid of being late. He saw it right before his own eyes and, of course, believed that Sherlock did have feelings even if he seemed incapable of acknowledging them.

John would never forget his feelings of panic and horror after realizing that the damn explosion featured on the news had occurred in the house opposite to theirs. In that house, where he sometimes looked into his neighbour’s window for cats. He would also never forget the feeling of relief at the sight of a completely uninjured Sherlock sitting in front of Mycroft. As if nothing had happened. As if there was no broken glass around, no fresh autumn breeze blowing into the flat through broken windows.

Each new puzzle, each new secret made them dance around the city, forgetting about food and sleep. Until they finally figured out the last and the most important one.

++**++

“You gave Mycroft that memory stick, right?”

“Yeah. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood… again.”

John’s mobile vibrated suddenly with an incoming message. Fully expecting that the message was from Mycroft, he was startled to see a different name.

Need you. Urgent. My flat. Bill.

“I won't be here for the tea. I'm going to Sarah's.” John shut the laptop and got up from the table. “We still have this risotto left in the fridge… And we need milk.”

“I'll get it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Um, ok… and some beans then?” John decided to push his luck and received an affirmative nod. He hoped that during his absence Holmes would not inflict even greater damage to their flat, and seriously considered the option of staying over at Bill's if he was going to him anyway.

He caught a taxi and arrived at Murray's in less than 20 minutes. The first suspicion that something was wrong was the unlooked door. But still, if Bill was not feeling well, he could have just left it open, knowing that John was coming soon. John cautiously entered the dark corridor and listened to the silence. He heard nothing suspicious.

“Bill?”

When Bill didn’t respond, John pulled out his gun as quietly as possible and went to inspect the apartment. After stumbling over the hunched silhouette near the table in the dark kitchen he suspected the worst.

“Bill?” he called softly again. He thought he saw the silhouette stir a little, but there was no more movement. Watson flicked the switch and froze, stunned, when his eyes finally got used to the light.

“What the fuck?” John put his gun away and ran to his friend tied to a chair. Broken and bleeding nose, bleeding lips, bruises and abrasions. He tried to pull the tape from his mouth as gently as possible, to avoid making the cuts worse. Bill didn’t even respond to his ministrations, appearing to be heavily sedated.

“God! Who’s done this?”

“Me.”

He had been so stunned by Bill’s condition that he’d missed the man’s silent appearance behind him. A blow on the temple knocked him to the ground and he found himself glaring angrily at the face of a smiling Sebastian Moran.

“Sorry, doc. I had to cheat the older Holmes and his operatives. And our Bill refused to cooperate.”

“You have no idea how many times I’ve regretted saving your life,” muttered John, shaking his buzzing head to try to clear it. He hated himself for that thought, but it would be so much better if he had not helped him. Better for everyone who had suffered at the hands of this man.

Moran squatted down in front of him and grinned.

“But I appreciate it very much, doc. You so selflessly fought for my life although, even back then, you suspected that I wasn't the person everyone thought I was. Just like you, eh, doc?”

“Fuck off.”

“Tsk… How rude,” Moran's grin grew even larger. Pointing his gun at John's temple he pulled him by his arm from the floor. John could do nothing but obey. And now he had his hands tied behind his back, albeit without handcuffs. Moran took his gun and mobile and threw everything in one of the kitchen cabinets.

“Sit, doc. We have time. No more than 20 minutes, but still better than nothing.”

Moran pulled a chair out for him and made him sit in it, using force as he tried to resist, bracing himself over the table.

“Are you done burning holes in my head? I have immunity.”

“Then what will we do in the remaining time? Talk?” asked John. He didn’t particularly want to talk but at least it might give him a chance to learn something important. “Maybe about why I'm here?”

“It's needed. How were you shot?”

“As if you don't know how already.”

The question was unexpected and not very pleasant. It was nothing special, and John didn’t like talking about personal stuff but now he realised he might need to – anything to keep Moran talking. It might just save his life… or extend it, anyway.

“Talk, doc.”

“In a settlement twenty miles from the base there was an outbreak of dengue fever. At first, everything was as usual; we knew that there was no danger. Well we thought that we knew. I was shot in the shoulder and I was lucky. Do you remember Sgt Straun? He was killed instantly. Thanks to some locals I was not finished there and then. Others managed to escape, they returned half an hour later with back-up, but this time there was no Bill to help me. I managed to pick up the damn plague and spent more than two months in hospital.”

“Ahh… And then you were sent back home. Like something useless.” In Moran's voice he heard genuine anger. “Fools! If you were mine I wouldn’t have allowed that.”

Suddenly Moran reached out and touched John's pursed lips making him tilt his head in surprise, trying to get away from the insistent fingers. The sharp movement made everything around him blur.

“Don't be like that… You knew, always knew I'm sure. And you were too honest, too proper, too good… Still are… I was sure Bill was fucking you, but it turns out, you did not let even him. Obviously, only Holmes was good enough. And I would add – both Holmes, didn’t they, Johnny-boy?”

Of course, John had known about this unhealthy obsession. He had eyes in his head, and it was hard not to notice when someone was devouring him like he was a meal for a starving dog. John suspected the whole base had known about that crush. Moran was looking at him with an odd expression, as if trying and failing to understand something.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why wasn't I good enough?”

John closed his eyes. How could he explain that it was he, that he himself, was not good enough, not quite able to trust, not quite able to let someone into his life whether it was male or female? He was not a homophobe; after all, his sister was a lesbian and he was ok with that. More than ok. But Sherlock was in his life by pure accident, and it was only because of that coincidence that he was still around… or was it? He just didn’t know any more.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Moran briefly pondered the idea.

“Probably not. It doesn't matter now.”

John sat still with his eyes closed when he felt the touch of cold metal to his cheek, then it slid down until the barrel of the gun stopped at his frantically beating heart.

“Always wanted to do this.”

The other man's lips were dry and hard. John had forgotten when he had last been kissed by someone so desperately, with so much need. Since returning home, apart from so far unsatisfying attempts with Sarah, he had not tried to get to know anybody. He was broken enough to be interesting to others, but not interested enough himself to do something about it.

And now this sudden kiss showed him what he was missing. Simple human touch, affection from another living being. Something… He remembered sensitive fingers on his face, running gently over his spine… a warm tongue on his neck…

“How about you show some enthusiasm here?” He was pulled forcibly back into the present. John didn’t want to – couldn’t - feel anything while being kissed by this cruel man, far from it. 

John gathered his courage and looked at Moran's eyes, full of crazy excitement and delight in his impunity. The sick bastard was turned on by his control over the situation and permissiveness. And John just prayed that the finger on the trigger would not waver while Moran was waiting for his answer.

A phone call interrupted him, to John's relief. Moran replied without taking his keen eyes off him –“Yes?” – and, after a short pause, immediately turned his mobile off.

“We'll have to postpone our pleasant conversation for another time. The boss is waiting. Behave yourself. Otherwise the sniper, not as good as me, but still good, will have to remove our friend Bill here. I know you don't want this. Nor do I. After all it was our Billy who pulled bullets out of you once.”

With horror, John saw the quivering red dot on Bill's chest. Well, clearly he’d have to play by the proposed rules. Moran implied that this was not their last conversation, which seemed promising. He expected them to go down and into the street – that way he’d have a chance of being noticed by one of Mycroft's cameras – but instead they climbed to the roof of a neighbouring building and sat down in a small police patrol helicopter.

++**++

If only he could have known, could have foreseen the consequences of playing games with Moriarty, he would never have left Sherlock alone. He would never have gone running after receiving the message from Bill not explaining where he was heading. He would never have told him that he was going to Sarah. Of course, John would have gone anyway, even knowing that it was a trap, but maybe he would have been more prepared.

Sherlock didn’t like Murray, and John strongly suspected he was jealous, because Bill was the only person other than John's sister and Sherlock himself at whose first call he was ready to drop everything and rush across the city to provide help or rescue. The only difference was that Holmes's reason could be everything from a burning flat to not wanting to get up and walk to the kitchen for a pan or to make tea, whereas Bill never called him for nonsense.

If only he could have known, could have predicted that “Jim from IT”, Molly's new boyfriend, and James Moriarty, consulting criminal, had been one person all this time. But he could never have guessed, and now he was left with the realization that all this time he had been close to this man and had done nothing. He had been really naïve to assume that Jim, the madman who shot Bill in the leg, had just been living a double life the same as him, John Watson. And that he was not the dangerous criminal mastermind for whom the Holmes' brothers had been hunting.

What a fool he had turned out to be! Now he was paying for his own stupidity and ignorance with Bill's life, Sherlock’s life and even the lives of strangers.

“It was so nice of Sherlock to show such uncharacteristic care. Sending his lap dog out of harm’s way in order to meet the villain on his own,” Moriarty chuckled, nastily. “Although, judging by the surprise on your face, you don't actually know that he’s asked me on a date. Here, at midnight… Tsssk… A bit not good, hmm?”

John could only glare and grit his teeth impotently while he was strapped into a bomb vest at the swimming pool’s edge.

“What did Sherlock see in you – why did he choose you? What does Seb see in you? I simply don't understand.”

He had no answers to the questions of a madman. And if he had, he would not share them.

“You know, I’ve been watching you a long time, but I still don’t get it. Well, I think after tonight, it will be no longer relevant.”

He was dressed in a parka and given an ear microphone.

“Now almost everything is ready. It remains only to wait for the main protagonist,” Moriarty giggled again. No doubt he was amused by the whole situation. And he was clearly confident he would be the winner. This could only signify one thing – that his own chances or Sherlock's chances of success were getting closer to the critical point, in spite of Moran's words.

John was led into one of the dressing cubicles at the poolside and left to wait. He could hear perfectly well as the door was slammed back; he clearly heard the quiet confident steps that he would know anywhere now. He couldn’t understand why no one could hear his heart beating; it felt as if it would burst out of his chest any moment.

“Brought you a little getting to know you present… This is what it’s been for, isn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this.”

John came out of the locker room and stopped when he heard the command. Sherlock was some distance away, but turned at his footsteps, the memory stick held out in his hand.

“Evening.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, he saw the familiar tall figure halt in genuine surprise. The icy eyes glittered as they took in John’s figure, his coat currently covering the vest. John’s heart stuttered at the expression of… what? Hurt? Fear? He couldn’t tell, but if he had ever needed proof that Sherlock had feelings, he had it now.

They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. John struggled desperately to convey all he wanted to say to Sherlock – all the things he’d never said; had never admitted, even to himself. But he had to focus on the words Moriarty was feeding to him through the earpiece.

“This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?”

“John… What the hell…”

“Bet you never saw this coming.” - John pulled his hands from his pockets and opened his parka – he saw the sudden relief in Sherlock’s eyes as he realised; relief replaced almost immediately by fear. “What would you like me… to make him say… next?”

He sighed heavily, as he repeated the meaningless dribble being relayed to him.

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted, turning around, frantically searching for the source.

“Nice touch this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.” He repeated the words as blankly, as unemotionally as possible.

“Who are you?”

“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.” The light, lilting Irish accent floated across the swimming pool towards them, and Sherlock took his eyes off John to seek the source.

John predicted that Moriarty would be a surprise for Sherlock, not because of his appearance - that much could have been expected - but because of who he was revealed to be.

“Is that a British army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Both.”

“Jim Moriarty. Hi.”

John felt a shiver of disgust at the voice. Words were falling like rocks striking the tiles and he could do nothing but wait. He waited and listened, counting the footsteps as the man approached; listening to the dialogue between the consulting detective and consulting criminal, and watching Sherlock, who was busy calculating the number of scenarios in his clever head even as he continued this little dance of danger with his counterpart.

“Sherlock, run!” He needed only one single chance. The only successful interweaving of circumstances. And he, without hesitation, took the opportunity to grab Moriarty, just as the man threw the memory stick in the water.

Now, while he had him as a shield from the sniper's bullets, he could play his cards. If only Holmes had seized the moment and left.

“You have rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”

He saw it himself. The red trembling dot on Sherlock's head.

“Gotcha!” Moriarty gave another of his insane giggles. 

John could have broken the bastard's neck in a few seconds, but was now forced to let go and step back. He hated feeling so helpless. Moriarty just smugly shook himself and straightened his tie and suit.

“Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed?” Sherlock tried to convey his boredom with the concept, keeping his gun steadily training on the man, even as his eyes flickered imperceptibly towards John once more.

“Kill you? No. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway… someday. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying … I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.” John swallowed back the nausea that rose in his throat at the chilling sound of those words.

“I've been reliably informed that I don't have one.” Sherlock replied, in slow, measured tones.

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” He flickered his eyes slyly in the direction of John, who was standing and clenching his hands in impotent rage.

“Well... I'd better be off. It was so nice to have had a proper chat.” And Moriarty turned and walked away as if nothing had happened, airily brushing off Sherlock’s threat to shoot him.

And they were left to deal with the fact that he was still alive. But at least John could take a deep breath, even if he was still in the heavy vest.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock seemed to suddenly remember the bomb and threw himself on his knees in front of John, as if making a marriage proposal. Perhaps it was in some sense. He fumbled frantically at the parka and vest, ripping them off and flinging them away. “Yes?”

“Yes-yes, I'm ok.” John struggled to catch his breath. “Sherlock! Sherlock!”

Sherlock had run after Moriarty, but immediately returned still clutching John’s gun.

“You ok?” John couldn’t help asking – the detective looked distracted and confused.

“Me? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine… That thing... that you did… that you offered to do was… good.”

“Well, I'm glad no one saw that.”

“Hmm?”

“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

“They do little else.”

John could not help but respond to Sherlock’s smile. Just like in the early days of their acquaintance, when they stood, leaning their backs against the wall in the hallway at Baker Street after that mad chase through London. He remembered how alive he’d felt back then.

Now he felt more than just alive. Adrenaline mixed with fear, with the natural human fear for their lives, was making him think thoughts he would never normally think – it was making him experience emotions that he’d kept carefully buried for years. John Watson laughed and could not understand why he had never, even once, thought about kissing that irritating smirk right off the detective’s face.

He shook his head in disbelief at the direction his thoughts were taking and started to stand up, but froze when he saw the red dots appear on his chest. Surely not now…

“Sorry, boys! I'm so changeable!” Moriarty returned with a joyful clap of his hands. “It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

Sherlock caught John’s glance, and receiving a silent agreement. The two men gazed at each other for what could only be seconds, but in that moment, they were able to convey all that they wanted to each other.

John felt a strange calmness descend. It had been hard to nod, knowing instinctively what Sherlock had in mind, but he was willing to risk their lives and that of Bill’s to stop this madman. It was the right thing to do. He’d managed to say all that was necessary to Sherlock, and now only this remained… to watch the detective’s finger as it squeezed the trigger… to calculate the speed and trajectory of the bullet… to wonder, as his muscles tensed, if he would have the time and strength to throw himself into the water, taking Sherlock with him, even as the bomb went off.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours.” Sherlock turned, with his usual grace, and pointed his gun at the cast-aside vest of explosives, now situated directly between them and the criminal mastermind. 

++**++

Everything in his life was associated with phone calls. With unexpected appointments, messages and again phone calls. If he hadn’t accidentally met Bill and agreed to work with him, he would never have met Sherlock, who had immediately dragged him along to Mycroft. There were a lot of "ifs", a lot of entanglements of random events, accompanied by messages and calls.

Here and now, the phone call reflected loudly from the tiled walls and chlorinated water. A stupid ring tone, some banal pop song. Just a call that saved their lives.

“If I make it to old age and if, one day, I write my memoirs, I'll name this epic opus "My life with Sherlock Holmes". How do you like the title?”

“Then people would definitely talk.”

“Let them talk.” John laughed with relief. He laughed and laughed, and found he couldn’t stop.

Sherlock pulled John up and pressed his forehead to the doctor’s temple, pulling him into strong hug… and this time, John didn’t resist.

The Game was on. 

 

The End


End file.
